


The Mistake

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Daddy Kink, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An angsty, porny Micheoff origin story.</p><p>Excerpt:</p><p>'Geoff just needs to sit Michael down, he thinks, and tell him the truth. </p><p>Well.</p><p>Some of the truth.</p><p>Not all of the truth. That would be bad. That would be a Hindenburg-level disaster.</p><p>Because, Geoff thinks, all of the truth would include statements such as:</p><p>"You were even better than I anticipated in all of the sex dreams I've had about you," and...</p><p>"If I weren't twelve years older than you, and your boss, and an enormous fucking asshole, this would definitely be a date," and…</p><p>"I hope there is a time in the future when I can look at your mouth without remembering how good it looks it around my cock," and…</p><p>"The more you avoid me, the more I want to slam you against a wall, get off those stupid fucking pants, and hear you whine for me." </p><p>So. Right. Some of the truth.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

\- AUGUST 2013, THURSDAY NIGHT - 

Fingers laced and tightening in the curls at the back of Michael’s scalp, Geoff has a moment of clarity. He has made a mistake. 

It was never supposed to go this way. In fact, at every point it should have gone differently. Geoff should’ve been the responsible one, not the one acting like a horny frat boy. 

The thought that he has made a mistake strikes him like electricity and instead of letting go of Michael’s hair, Geoff grips tighter. Geoff closes his eyes, shame washing over him. Michael doesn’t seem to notice that Geoff is suddenly uncomfortably aware of every sensation—the ceiling fan pushing hot air around the room, Michael’s mouth working impatiently around his cock, the sweat now exposed on the backs of his kneecaps, suddenly cold, suddenly dripping.

_What the fuck was he doing._ Geoff’s hand becomes a fist at the back of Michael’s head. Michael goes with it for a moment, but then gags, uncomfortable. It’s enough to shake Geoff out of himself. _What the fuck. What the fuck._

"You ok?" Michael says, stopping. He’s got a fist around Geoff’s softening dick. Moonlight streams in through half-opened blinds and Michael’s looking up with the sweetest expression. Flushed. What the fuck kind of mistake had Geoff made.

"Yeah, no, it’s ok," Geoff stumbles to find the right words. "Hey, sorry, you don’t have to…" He starts to push himself back from the edge of the bed. Michael lets go but follows him, no longer kneeling and now pushing himself to follow Geoff into bed.

"I want to," Michael says. "Did I do something?" 

But now the situation is like a fractal, patterns of hurt blossoming out of Geoff’s first mistake. He sees it unfolding into their futures. He fucked it up so bad. He let them get here, let it happen, and now not only does he have to face this… mistake—whatever it is, whatever it will evolve into—he has to face this moment in bed with an unsure kid who thinks he did something wrong. 

Up and down, backwards and forwards, Geoff knows that he has fucked this situation up royally. Damage control begins now, he thinks to himself. 

"No, Michael, come here," Geoff says. If there’s disgust in his voice, he hopes Michael won’t take it personally. The moon makes it light enough to see at the head of the bed and Geoff gestures with his arms out for Michael to join him, reclining on the bed. "It’s just me—you didn’t do anything," he says. 

"But I want you to come," Michael says gently, breaking eye contact and stroking Geoff’s hip. The words ignite something animal in Geoff at the base of his balls. He ignores it. Internally he’s shouting a thousand insults at his own body, which should really shut the fuck up right now and realize its mistake.

Even drunk, Michael’s face in the dim light is sweet, embarrassed. He’s so unprotected, wearing his expression like a bruise. He won’t meet Geoff’s eyes. It’s making it worse. _What the fuck had Geoff done._

"I don’t think I can come," Geoff lies. "You know, just weird shit." It’s vague. He hopes Michael will buy it. The last thing he needs right now is to wreck the kid’s head over this. Michael nods.

"Weird shit. Got ya." If Michael is hurt, he’s starting to mask it. The cherub face becomes a smirk. 

"Do you want some water—maybe Gatorade or something?" Geoff offers. He starts to get out of bed. He wants to act casual.

"I’m good." 

Geoff’s fumbling around now on the dark side of the bed. He can tell he’s being about as casual as a man falling off of a fucking cliff. He grabs his phone and clicks it on to use it as a dim flashlight in the shadow. Where the fuck are his drawers.

"You should go ahead and drink something before you go to sleep," Geoff says, still feeling around the floor. Finally he lays hands on a pair of boxer briefs that he hopes are his. "You’re going to have a wicked hangover when you wake up." 

"OK, fine _dad_ ,” Michael says, doing his best impression of a petulant teenager. The sweetness is gone. Geoff thinks it’s probably for the best. “I’ll never drink again,” Michael says, lapsing into a nasal and exaggerated nerd voice. “Get me some Gatorade.” He turns to his side, not bothering to pull the sheet up in the heat. 

By the time Geoff returns to the bedroom, double fisting bottles of aspirin and Gatorade, Michael is already sleeping heavily. Geoff would rather let him sleep than bother him. Sleep, he thinks, is probably what the man needs right now anyway. They could straighten shit out in the morning.

—-

\- EARLY 2012 - 

It starts so innocently. Geoff finds someone who he thinks will be a good fit for the team. Michael. He’s a lot of fun, smart as a whip, good at making friends and good at making fans. And goddamn is Michael a hard worker. In early, out late, never behind on deadlines. He hits it off with the rest of the team and what starts as an easy employee/boss relationship becomes an easy friendship. Just like Gavin, Michael falls into the rhythm of time off together, trips, activities—and lots of drinking. 

Not that it’s ever hurt anyone at RT. Those who choose not to drink don't make a big deal out of it. Those who choose to drink do so liberally, at work, after work, whatever. Geoff knows how to drink and knows how to handle himself when he’s been drinking. He knows it so well that sometimes it’s difficult to remember that the younger men might not know their own limits, might not control themselves.

Maybe it was that Gavin had made Geoff complacent. Yeah, there was a period where Gavin got far too drunk too often—but the worst that ever happened was a few bumps and scrapes. And usually that was  _more_ than balanced out by the fact that they all had a hilarious story to tell as soon as the hangover had passed. 

So it was too easy to assume that the situation would be the same with Michael. That the worst that could happen would be that Michael would pull some stupid stunt (although that didn’t seem in his nature) that would give them good fodder to prod him about later. 

-

\- AUGUST 2013, THURSDAY AFTERNOON - 

It’s a hot afternoon, summer's light still strong and beating at 6 p.m.. Michael couldn’t imagine a type of weather he’d like less—the end of the summer in Texas when it’s been so hot outside for so long that you start to think that maybe it will never be bearable outside again. The type of hot that sweats you in no time flat. Shirt sticking to you everywhere. Fucking sweat marks. Really flattering. He didn’t want to walk anywhere, didn’t want to stand outside. 

Achievement Hunter is going for a drink once the Thursday afternoon work is done, and Michael knows they’re all going to end up at some half-indoor, half-patio hole in the wall where they’ll all pretend like they’re not so hot that they want to die. But when they’re all out together, Thursday bleeds into Friday which seeps into the weekend in a way that’s too good to pass up. 

But when Gavin tells him that everyone else is ‘gonna bev’ that evening, he says no at first. 

"But Michael—" Gavin begins.

At least three people loudly throw out a “BUT MICHAEL!” in the small office, not so much because the joke is even funny anymore but it’s a reflex at that point. They don't even look up from their work. Gavin presses his mouth into a straight line for a minute and he continues.

"Michael," he says, "we’re _all_ going. You can’t be the ONE missing person. Even Ray’s gonna go.”

"I get heatstroke sitting still at my goddamn desk," Michael says, only half pretending to be annoyed. "I’m not cut out for that bikes and bevs shit like you and Geoff." 

Geoff rolls his eyes, paying attention to the conversation now.

"It is admittedly hot as dicks outside," he says, in what sounds like a concession. "But you’re going." 

"But Geeeeeofffff," Michael says, exaggerating a whine.

The other men in the office are starting to gather up their stuff, everyone standing, tossing empty soda bottles into trash cans and jangling keys.

"No butts, mister," Geoff says, logging out of his computer. "Put your shoes on, we’re going to grandma’s."

"I fuckin’ _love_ grandmas,” Ray says, pumping his fists in the air. Everyone is waking up now, gearing up for the night out. 

"I love your grandma too, Ray," Gavin says. They’re all filing out now.

"Whose grandma?" Jack says from the hall.

"You leave my abuelita out of this," Ray shoots back

And with that they’re all out the door, saying their goodbyes, back into that fucking heat. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You gave him a rageboner," Gavin says, beaming at his own cleverness. "Whose side are you ON Geoff?"

\- AUGUST 2013, THURSDAY EVENING - 

They all started with a beer and Jack bought the first round, something hoppy and bitter and local. Not Michael’s favorite, but who is he to say no to free beer? Ryan and Ray stick with soda, surprising no one, but they're cordial about the others drinking. It's a given by now.

Michael drinks the first bottle fast but when it’s time for them to start their own tabs, Michael switches to cans of weak domestic beer and nobody even pretends to give him a hard time about it. Gavin is quickly on to mixed drinks, Jack continues with his strong local brews while Geoff drinks whiskey wells like water.

It's just a given by now.

Two beers deep, Michael just feels full and dehydrated—probably a side effect of how damned hot it is outside. Leave it to this team of geniuses to go to an outdoor bar in Texas in August. Why? Because it has a working Street Fighter II arcade machine.

He sidles up to the bar and orders a bottle of water—which ironically turns out to cost him more than the canned beer he just finished—and a second can of beer.

The team has dominated the arcade game for most of the night, but no one seems to mind. The bar is crowded and loud enough that no one notices a few obscene outbursts. As he makes his way back to the console, he realizes that the entire group is waiting for him.

"You’re up buddy!" Geoff says, more chipper than he should be considering the amount of brown liquor Michael has watched him down tonight.

"Oh goddamn you guys," Michael says. "Who am I playing?"

"Get ready to be my bitch," Ray says. "Hadouken, motherfucker!" Gavin strikes a pose behind him, mimicking a power move. Ray and Michael step up to the game, tinny music almost lost in the background noise.

"Be the one with the tits this time," Gavin slurs to no one in particular.

"You mean Chun-Li?" Jack asks seriously.

"Literally the only female in the game, Gavin," Ryan says. "Great work."

"No there’s—ahh," Gavin says, protesting. "Ahh hell. Vegas? Vinga?"

"Vega?" Ryan says. "Vega is definitely a dude."

"Well he’s very sassy," Gavin says, feigning a pout.

"And European," Michael says.

"Oy, Michael," Gavin says, feigning hurt.

"You can’t play as Vega anyway," Jack says. "He’s a boss."

"OK, be Dhalsim then," Gavin says.

"Das racist," Geoff says, but Ray chooses the Indian yogi character anyway.

Michael chooses Zangief—a giant shirtless Russian, “Because he LIFTS,” Ray suggests—and the game is on.

If it were any other game, things wouldn’t be as animated as they were during “performances” in the office—but they all know that Street Fighter is just glorified button mashing and none of them can take it that seriously. The campy graphics and alcohol and energy of the night carry through in the game as they roughhouse and chant and perform narrations that get increasingly raunchy since there’s no one recording.

Ray wins the first round—he’s gone undefeated so far tonight—and then Michael wins a round in a stunning feat of button mashing. Gavin and Geoff characteristically rally around Michael.

"Come on Michael, my lovely boy," Gavin says, massaging Michael’s shoulders like the coach of a boxer heading into the next round.

"Look at that chest hair—Ray can’t stand up to that chest hair," Geoff says. "You got this Michael."

"Thanks, daddy," Michael jokes. Geoff takes Gavin’s place behind Michael, always ready to push any joke to the next level.

"Aw yeah Michael, you know what I love to hear most," Geoff says, taking over the exaggerated massage. "Do it for _daddy_."

"Dad for the win!" Ray says in a deep voice—and the round begins.

It’s not close. Ray keeps throwing out combos. But it doesn’t matter—Michael would’ve lost even if Ray were playing like shit—because Geoff is continuing the joke, and the fake massage moves south from his shoulders, getting more real as Michael plays, Geoff rubbing his arms as he tries to concentrate, speaking low nonsense and laughing in Michael’s ear in a spoof of dirty talk. 

Swiss fucking cheese, Michael thinks to himself. How the fuck much had Geoff had to drink so far?

"It’s not going well, Michael," Geoff says. "You need daddy to teach you some moves?"

"Geoff NO!" Gavin protests. "You’re distracting—" but then Gavin is gone in a fit of noises and laughter.

"The offer still stands, Michael," Geoff says. "I really think I could show you some things."

"God DAMN it Geoff," Michael says, summoning up frustration that would’ve fit right into a Ragequit.

And now everyone but Ray—who is busy slaughtering Michael—thinks the joke is funny and Geoff won’t let it drop until it’s played out to its natural progression.

"Ohhhh little Michael, whyyy," Geoff coos, bending slightly to lace his arms around Michael’s waist. "You gotta buck up little fella."

"You gave him a rageboner," Gavin says, beaming at his own cleverness. "Whose side are you ON Geoff?" 

"I call shenanigans," Ryan says. "How much did Ray pay you to feel Michael up during his turn?" 

Geoff laughs, pleased with himself that he's made a joke everyone buys into. 

"Geoff, you're up next," Ray says. "We gotta prove this wasn't an inside job." Geoff steps up to the machine and everyone has already moved on, forgotten the joke.

It is all a game and Michael knows on every level it’s a joke. It makes him flush though, Geoff’s weight on him, the dirty talk, smelling the alcohol on Geoff’s breath that isn’t entirely unpleasant. 

Maybe it’s the beer. He doesn’t know. He feels embarrassed and strange and suddenly unable to laugh the joke off and roll with it, to just give it right back to Geoff and play out the submissive little boy role, making jokes about boners. It feels strange without the “gaze” of the recording in the background—or maybe he’s just tired of performing. 

Or maybe Geoff is picking at a tender spot in Michael’s brain that’s been there for weeks.

——

\- JULY 2013 - 

It’s the second week in July and somehow Gavin still seems to be nursing a hangover from Independence Day. He and Geoff are working on a Let’s Build, mysteriously talking in code about an elaborate game they’re creating in Minecraft. Michael has only one half of his headphones on, working on his own editing and drifting in and out of the conversation.

"What’s the craziest thing you've ever done drunk?" Gavin says—one of their many hypothetical Q&As.

"You mean besides a dude?" Geoff shoots back. Gavin laughs easily.

"If you’re into that," Gavin says.

"If YOU’RE into that," Geoff says. They’re the picture of maturity.

"Geoff, have you ever been with a dude?"

"You mean besides your mom?" Geoff says without missing a beat.

"I will let you have that joke," Gavin says, "because you are a gentleman and a scholar."

"Low hanging fruit, Gavin."

"No, but really Geoff."

"Yeah, I have," Geoff says. Michael is still half ignoring the conversation, thinking it’s the set up to some more elaborate joke.

"Had sex with a guy?" Gavin says, also sensing that there must be a punchline.

"Yeah man," Geoff says, maybe too casually. There’s a moment of dead air time where Gavin isn’t sure what to do with the information, joke, whatever is happening. 

This is fucking strange, Michael thinks, turning to look at Geoff. More dead air. Seconds tick by conspicuously.

"YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST, FOLKS," Ray says loud enough to come through clearly on the Let’s Build audio. Thank fuck for Ray, Michael thinks. Ray’s already up out of his chair and leaning into Gavin’s mic screen.

"Startling confessions," Ray says seriously, "on this week’s Let’s Build."

Geoff laughs easily at it then and the weird moment has passed and they’re already horsing around.

"Are you serious, Geoff?" Gavin says.

Michael leans back in his chair.

"Yeah Geoff," Michael says, "are you for realsies?"

"Michael," Ray narrates seriously into the microphone, "wondering if all of his fantasies are finally about to come true. Geoff, contemplating whether or not he is, in fact, for realsies."

"Yeah, man, I’m for real for realsies," Geoff says, still patiently mining.

"Why did you never say, Geoff?" Gavin says, sounding like he’s on the verge of tears.

"Jesus Christ Gavin, are you gonna cry?" Geoff says. "I’m not gay."

"Geoff, breaking the news that gay sex no longer considered gay," Ray announces. They all laugh.

"No, I mean, not strictly—" Geoff says.

"Not strictly dickly," Michael says. "Yeah I can dig that."

"Can I tweet about this?" Ray says, returning to his desk.

"If you do, we’ll probably get a shitload of views on this Let’s Build," Geoff says.

—-

Strangely, the news doesn’t seem to change much in the team dynamic. Geoff must have known that none of them would care, Michael thinks, or he wouldn’t have so casually answered the question. It makes sense, Michael thinks.

The Let’s Build does get a shitload of views, Geoff’s right. He gets more than his fair share of weirdness from the fans, and plenty of “I KNEW IT!” in the comments. They ignore it as best they can.

But it doesn’t change much at work. They’re a bunch of assholes, true—but they’re not _bi-phobic_ assholes. And compared to some of the bizarre sexual preferences they had discussed in the office, gay sex is almost vanilla.

Gavin is full of questions, of course. Why hadn’t Geoff said anything before now (“I thought we had a strict don’t ask don’t tell policy, Gavin.”), who were the guys (“What, do you want names and socials too?”), had Geoff been in a relationship with any of them (“We’re in a relationship, aren’t we Gavin?”), and it went on. Geoff didn’t miss a beat with it. Half of it ended up in videos and half of it edited out. It stopped being interesting.

——

\- JULY 2013 - 

It’s 6 days after Geoff’s announcement and Michael, Gavin, and Geoff are trying to keep a quickly deteriorating Things To Do from becoming a big fat Let’s Fail. They’re wandering frantically in Grand Theft Auto IV searching for an ambulance. They try hurting characters, going to the hospital, driving endlessly. It starts to feel like it’s not going to happen, and the chatter turns back to Gavin’s favorite topic as the three of them cruise in the game.

"So Geoff, when you’re like, makin’ out with a guy or whatever—" Gavin starts.

"Gavin oh my GOD," Michael groans into the mic. "Still with this?"

"I just have a lot of questions, Michael," Gavin pouts.

"I should direct you to my gay sex FAQ page," Geoff says.

"What if there WAS a gay sex FAQ?" Michael says.

"I would never make you go to the gay sex FAQ, Michael," Geoff says, feigning tenderness.

"What, you don’t think I want to know about gay sex?" Michael says, lapsing into an exaggerated Jersey accent. "What are you trying to say?"

"Oh I know you want to know about it," Geoff says. "But I’ll give you private tutelage."

"What," Gavin says. "Like, parts of the boner?"

"Yes Gavin," Michael says. “‘What are the parts of the boner’ is definitely a frequently asked question."

"Is that what F A Q stands for?"

"Are you fucking kidding me," Michael says.

"What?" Gavin says.

"O, WOT," Michael parrots back to him.

"Come now boys," Geoff says. "Everyone has a lot to learn, it’s ok."

"You gonna teach me then, Geoff?" Michael says.

——

\- LATE SUMMER 2013 - 

It intensifies from there over the course of weeks. There’s a new layer there for Michael that’s unexpectedly fascinating. What would it be like to be with Geoff? How much of Geoff’s teasing—which became increasingly relentless and took a decidedly twisted bent with all of the daddy talk—was just talk? All of it?

The idea sticks in a corner of his mind, growing and fermenting, until Michael finds himself thinking of it even when Geoff isn’t around to tease him. 

He begins to imagine what Geoff would teach him if they were alone—sometimes they’re in Geoff’s apartment, sometimes in the office, sometimes the setting doesn’t matter.

He imagines the older man’s hands, confident on his body, roughly undressing him, unbuckling his belt, pulling his shirt off so hard that it knocks Michael’s glasses. Or alternately, being commanded in a low voice to undress for Geoff—for daddy—and then standing, exposed, with the weight of anticipation.

He thinks of being invited to sit on Geoff’s lap, thinks of obeying, imagines the easy laugh close to his ear, the roughness of Geoff’s face on his neck from behind, the man’s insistent hardness pressing through his clothes. Michael imagines giving up control in Geoff’s hands. Michael imagines the things Geoff would teach him.

The thoughts burn into him as he comes into his own hand day after day, flushed and less and less embarrassed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally wrote this way back when, I honestly had no clue how to write anyone other than Geoff and Michael. It's been kind of wonderful going back through and editing these older chapters and realizing how much more I know about the rest of AH. 
> 
> And by wonderful I mean wow I'm a big fat creep, goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff loses all sense of equilibrium and place and time, feeling only that he wants to touch Michael more and be closer and take those fucking glasses off, goddamn it did he never realize how much they’d get in the way.

\- AUGUST 2013, THURSDAY NIGHT - 

Ray finishes Geoff in the third round of Street Fighter II with a yoga flame move and the team erupts, alternately cheering Ray and consoling Geoff.

Geoff detaches himself from the game, grabs the whiskey he’d placed on a nearby table, and finishes off the last sip. Christ is it hot out. He’s had too much to drink and everything has taken on the surreal quality of being an arm’s length away.

"I gotta go splash some water on the moneymaker, boys," he announces. "Are we ready for another round?"

"The washing part sounds good," Michael says. "I’ll come too."

"Aw, that’s so sweet, everyone going to the ladies room together," Jack says.

"Yeah I’ll hold your purse, Geoff," Michael says.

"Maybe we can find some air conditioning to stand in," Geoff says as he and Michael make their way away from the group.

The bathroom is bright, clean, and small—only designed for one occupant at a time—but Michael enters right behind Geoff instead of waiting outside. Geoff turns to question him, a joke already on his tongue, but Michael is pressed against the door, looking Geoff straight in the eye. He turns the lock with a crooked smile and Geoff works to process a moment of deja vu.

"Look motherfucker," Michael says, closing the distance between them before Geoff can make any snide remarks. "I’m going to need you to put up or shut up with all of this cutesy daddy teacher shit."

"Aw Michael, it’s just a joke," Geoff says. He had no idea it had actually been bothering Michael. He never would’ve taken it so far. "I’m sorry." Strangely, Michael doesn’t look hurt or upset. In fact, he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

"That’s NOT what I’m saying," Michael says. 

Geoff searches his face, waiting for an explanation. But none comes. It’s just angelic Michael, flushed and smirking, hair sticking to his forehead, suddenly closer to Geoff than he’d ever been outside of the context of a joke. 

Michael meets and holds his gaze and the moment stretches out surreally, Geoff wondering what Michael must see in his own eyes, aware of Michael placing a hand on his hip, the distance between them lessening even more as Michael drops his eyes with an expression halfway between anger and hunger.

"Oh," Geoff says, but Michael’s lips are on his and he can smell the other man and the bathroom lights seem too bright as the room swims around him. Geoff’s eyes are open but he sees that Michael’s are closed, serene, long lashed. Geoff realizes he isn’t kissing back, not from lack of attraction, desire, whatever it could or would be, but from shock. 

This wasn’t where he saw any of it going.

Michael pulls back, ending the kiss but not backing completely away, eyes open now but still downcast. 

"Michael, I--"

"It’s OK. I had to take a shot," Michael says without looking up. 

Fuck, Geoff thinks.

"Michael—"

Michael is backing up now, giving Geoff some room.  _Fuck._

"Ever since you said anything, I just—" Michael trails off, pleading, still not looking up. "Just don’t be an asshole about it Geoff, OK?" Michael says, already laughing off what he took to be rejection. "I’m sorry, I just—" 

Geoff closes the distance between them before Michael can choke on any more unneeded apologies. Michael is still looking down. Geoff reaches to tilt Michael’s head up and finally there are those eyes again.

"That’s NOT what I’m saying," Geoff says gently, echoing Michael’s words before echoing his kiss. This time Geoff enjoys it, the two men fitting together seamlessly, Geoff’s arms snaking over Michael’s, his hand at the small of Michael’s back. 

It’s too easy. 

Geoff rides an intense surge of pleasure as Michael presses into his touch, his lips parting after a moment of—what, resistance? Hesitation?  _Fuck_.

Geoff loses all sense of equilibrium and place and time, feeling only that he wants to touch Michael  _more_ and be closer and take those fucking glasses off, goddamn it did he never realize how much they’d get in the way. The rush of blood surges loud in his ears, sounding like a river in a vast canyon, and the only thing that brings him back to reality is a delicious whimper from Michael when Geoff bites his lower lip a bit too hard. Oh,  _fuck._ How long had they been standing there? How long had Geoff been lost in the current?

Geoff is the one to break the kiss again, but he doesn’t let Michael go as they both catch their breath. 

"Am I really going to be the asshole kissing the kid that he hired in a shitty bar bathroom?" 

Geoff’s not sure if he wants the real answer to his question and he immediately regrets saying it out loud. The heat, the sweat, the smell, the kiss, the vulnerable look on the younger man’s face, the erection Geoff can’t ignore, that surely Michael has noticed by now. He doesn’t want the answer. He  _does_ want to be that asshole. 

Michael is more confident now, but still can’t bring himself to simultaneously say what he’s thinking while maintaining eye contact.

"No," Michael says. Geoff’s chest feels hot and tight. Michael’s eyes drift to a spot somewhere behind Geoff’s shoulder. "I’ll be the asshole who sleeps with his boss, though. If you’ll let me."

Geoff laughs gently, letting him go. “Jesus _Christ_ , Michael.”

The cherubic lost boy look is gone from Michael’s face, replaced with a fiendish grin because Michael knows that’s not “no.” 

"Come on, Geoff, don’t make me beg."

"But what if I’m into that?" Geoff says, pressing a hand into Michael’s lower back again. 

"Yeah, should’ve seen that coming from a mile away," Michael admits.

—-

 - THE SAME NIGHT - 

To Michael’s surprise, there’s a short trajectory between the bar bathroom and Geoff’s apartment. Geoff excuses them both quickly from the bar, making up a story that no one questions about Michael puking in the bathroom and asking to be taken home. 

The rest of the team is too engrossed in their drinks and game to pay much attention, other than a few jabs about Michael being a lightweight. Either no one was paying attention to the fact that Michael had only had a few beers or everyone else was as dubious about the bar food they’d eaten earlier as Michael had been. 

Either way, there are no questions and only about twenty minutes of brisk walking between the bar and the inside of Geoff’s closed door.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn, finally.
> 
> '"What's so fuckin funny?" Michael asks, hoping banter--something ANYTHING familiar--can let him catch his breath.
> 
> "Just never thought I'd see Michael Jones taking charge," Geoff says, laughing earnestly at his own joke. 
> 
> "Well it was clear that you were never going to," Michael says, only half pretending to be angry about the remark, punctuating each word as he unbuttons Geoff's shirt, discards it. "And a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," he says, unbuckling Geoff's belt. "Jesus Christ, Geoff. Take off your fucking shoes."
> 
> Geoff kicks off his sneakers and shrugs. "You're the boss, Michael."
> 
> "I sincerely fucking doubt that," Michael says.'

\- 2012 - 

One thing Geoff learned when he was a kid was that there was always a kernel of truth to be found in the center of bullying.

He wasn't a dumb kid. He learned to defuse situations when someone was mad, someone was making fun of him, or wanted to fight. You learn a lot about the psyche of bullies by defusing the situation rather than avoiding the bully or fighting back. 

There were all sorts of bullies. Those who tease you because they're insecure about themselves. Those you single you out because they know they couldn't fight a stronger target. Those who pick on you because in their hearts there's a tiny bit of fear of you.

Decades later, Geoff sees it in himself, watching the AH videos and listening to his own banter. It's all good natured, of course, not true bullying. They joke together, at each other, rib each other constantly. It's all part of the entertainment. It's what makes working in the small, suffocating office halfway bearable.

When Geoff first starts working with Michael, he's shocked at what a suck-up the kid pretends to be sometimes. Geoff had assumed that Michael would be gruff and loud, always at the same volume--turned to eleven for every video, every interaction. But once Michael is on a team, he's eager to please. If Ray's the golden boy and Gavin is the trouble maker, Michael is most definitely the class brown noser.

If Geoff hadn't liked it, he probably would've picked on Michael differently or pointed out that he was a gigantic suck-up. But there was something ever so slightly appealing there that Geoff couldn't entirely ignore it (even if he could not, at the same time, actually admit to himself that he enjoyed it). So as Gavin and Michael fell easily into the role of best buddies that the world and Youtube had ever seen, Geoff and Michael fell easily and quietly into their teacher/student roles.

But Geoff was never entirely secure with whatever stirred inside of him when Michael called him "daddy." So he placed Michael gently into the walled-off part of his own consciousness. The part where one keeps dangerously attractive first cousins, hot close friends--never to be trotted out when you're touching yourself for fear that… who knows? God would strike you dead or they'd somehow just _know_? 

And it wasn't just because Michael was his friend and his employee. Gavin, for example, was a ridiculous twink tease, the stuff of shameless masturbation fantasies. He had his own place in the parade of attractive men and women who would cycle through his fantasies when Geoff was in the shower or trying to catch sleep at night. But he felt strangely protective of Michael, of his view of his employee. 

Sometimes, though. 

Sometimes Geoff would wake up breathless from a sex dream that was just too good not to relish for a moment. Lazy sex with Michael on a sun-drenched morning. Frantic sex with Michael in a car. Sometimes he just dreamed of Michael's mouth, his curls, his eyes. 

Michael crept into his dreams more often than Geoff would admit to anyone. Geoff, the guy who you could count on to enthusiastically recount every childhood prank, every drunken humiliation, every shit-in-your pants moment of his entire lifetime, would never EVER own up to his sex dreams about Michael. 

There were just some borders you couldn't cross. And he still felt guilty for the times when, after a dream, feeling confused and betrayed that it wasn't real life, he'd lingered in bed to stroke himself off before work. Knowing that he'd have to see the kid in, what, 45 minutes? 

Ah, hell. Michael fucking Jones. What a confounding little piece of work. 

What a wonder.

\-----

\- AUGUST 2013, THURSDAY NIGHT - 

Once they leave the rest of the team at the bar, the walk back to his apartment only vaguely sobers Geoff up. 

He's lost track of how much he's actually had to drink (never a good sign), and guesses that Michael must not be too far behind him. The velocity of the moment, the heat they shared in the bathroom and then the shared lie as they left the bar, propel them inexorably forward. Through the front door into the dark apartment, through the living room, into the blissfully cold circulated air, into Geoff's bedroom where the sheets are cold and unmade. 

He hadn't been expecting to bring anyone home from the bar. Definitely not Michael. Not in a million years. 

But Michael is single-minded, and once they're in the bedroom, he crushes his lips into Geoff's again. The surge is instantaneous and Geoff's entire body feels like it's throbbing, the dark, cool mass of the bed behind them, the intensity of the promise that the night won't end with a kiss. 

If he'd had fewer drinks, if the walk had been longer, there would've been a moment of hesitation. There would be an element of Geoff, usually present, where he'd have asked Michael why. He'd have asked if he's sure. They'd have set some boundaries--as friends, as boss and employee, as future lovers. 

But the combination of alcohol and Michael's insistent kisses, his hands skimming up and down, his ridiculous enthusiasm and his unwillingness to come up for air propels them both forward with no questions and no words. Their banter, their history falls away.

There is no question as Michael palms Geoff's hard-on through his shorts, grinds his own erection into Geoff's hip. Michael gently maneuvers Geoff backwards and the man takes an awkward step before falling hard onto his own bed. 

"Al _right,_ " Geoff says in his clipped manner, half shocked to find himself on the edge of the bed, getting his bearings. 

Michael smirks. "Idiot." 

"Fuck you," Geoff says low, with a smile. "C'mere."

\----

The bravado is fake and Michael can't believe Geoff is falling for it. Michael figured that if he actually made it back to Geoff's apartment, maybe he would calm the fuck down. But the uncomfortable hammering that started in Michael's chest the moment he decided to follow Geoff to the bathroom has only continued, intensified, and been matched with an aching arousal. 

He'd thought it would get at least a little easier. No such fucking luck, apparently.

He knows where he wants the night to go, though. He's played it out a hundred times in his head. Maybe a thousand. Maybe more. 

He's glad he didn't drink much, thankful for the bottle of water he gulped before they left the bar, and for the short walk to Geoff's apartment. He doesn't want to forget any of it--just in case it's his only shot.

Geoff is lounging on the edge of his own bed, looking handsome and more disheveled than usual. His crooked smile and crooked teeth couldn't look better to Michael, who strips off his damp shirt and kicks off his flip flops. His heart pounds and for a second he feels like he's going to pass out just from blood pressure alone. Christ. 

He moves to the bed and straddles Geoff's lap, bucking him back a bit further on the bed. Geoff chuckles under his breath. 

"What's so fuckin funny?" Michael asks, hoping banter--something ANYTHING familiar--can let him catch his breath.

"Just never thought I'd see Michael Jones taking charge," Geoff says, laughing earnestly at his own joke. 

"Well it was clear that you were never going to," Michael says, only half pretending to be angry about the remark, punctuating each word as he unbuttons Geoff's shirt, discards it. "And a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," he says, unbuckling Geoff's belt. "Jesus Christ, Geoff. Take off your fucking shoes."

Geoff kicks off his sneakers and shrugs. "You're the boss, Michael."

"I sincerely fucking doubt that," Michael says, pulling Geoff's shorts off but carefully leaving his boxer briefs in place. 

Michael can barely think now, beyond the point of no return, his heart hammering relentlessly. The point of no return is a distant fucking landmark, Michael thinks. He strips off his own shorts and then kneels, ready to mouth Geoff through his boxers, before two hands firmly grasp him by the underarms and brusquely yank him back up.

"You know what, you're right," Geoff says. "I take it back about you being the boss. Not if it means I don't even get to fucking see you." 

So Geoff holds him there at arms length, inspecting him in the moonlight that streams in through a large window. Even though he's still got boxer briefs on, Michael has never felt so naked. He can't even look Geoff in the face and hadn't planned on this hiccup in momentum.

Michael's heart pounds, pounds, pounds. Blood is a roar in his ears. He studies a poster behind Geoff's headboard, trying to make out the familiar figures. 

What must Geoff make of him, Michael wonders. What must the man think about his underfed physique, the few tattoos punctuating his pale skin, his utter lack of body hair. Was this was he wanted? Could he actually be attracted to Michael?

Michael is a few seconds from losing his nerve and his erection when he feels Geoff pull him closer, finally, planting gentle kisses across his ribs. 

"Mm, Michael," Geoff practically purrs to him between kisses. "Who knew you were so perfect?" There's no joke hiding under the surface there. Michael sighs.

Geoff palms Michael's dick lightly through his boxers and Michael can't muffle the involuntary moan at the touch. Geoff hooks a finger into the waistband of Michael's boxers and clumsily skims them off of his hips. 

Obediently, Michael steps out of the boxers, now on the floor. Geoff looks like he's unwrapped a particularly delicious morsel of candy, wolfish and hungry as he scans Michael up and down. He sighs as he gently traces Michael's ass with his hands, his hips, moving finally to Michael's cock.

Michael lets himself be stroked and caressed, happily giving up the reins for a moment. The contact, the compliment, was what his heart needed to calm down. He breathes again, then, as Geoff sloppily spits into his hand and then slicks Michael's cock. 

He could come right here and now, just a few strokes and he'd paint Geoff's hand like a school boy, but it's not what he wants. Although it would be easy--so easy, he thinks--to sit in Geoff's lap and let those knowing hands go to work. To just let Geoff take care of him. Let the fantasy play out. Maybe it could still happen sometime in the future, but it's not what he's planned. 

Instead, moaning, Michael whispers in Geoff's ear, "I want to take care of _you._ " 

Geoff's breath hitches as Michael reaches down with a confident touch to stroke the other man through his boxers. They stay there for a second, both holding each other and breathing hard in the dark, before Michael disengages, moves to kneel on the floor.

This time it's Michael's turn to take it all in. Geoff's slack grin and half-lidded eyes, his lightly furred belly, and heavy tattoos that made him look clothed at first glance, even when he is mostly naked. He's no fucking Abercrombie model, Michael thinks, but something hot swells in his chest when he looks at the man.


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gift looks even more ridiculous sitting on Geoff's desk than Michael had planned. The Crate & Barrel employee really went over the top--not stopping at the discreet and sophisticated black and white box, black ribbon, but adding what looked like an entire bouquet of paper flowers to the top of the box.
> 
> Michael had tried, fleetingly, to untie the ridiculous flowers in the RT parking lot before thinking "Fuck it--you know what? Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck me, fuck my life, Geoff gets flowers."

\- MAY 2013 - 

"The fuck is this," Michael says, looking stunned at the thermos Geoff has pressed into his hand. 

"It's coffee, asshole," Geoff says, already sitting down at his computer with his own thermos. "You should try it sometime."

"You know I don't like coffee, Geoff." 

"Yeah, yeah," Geoff dismisses him, waving his hand. "It's better than the four dollar red bull piss you drink all day. I brought it from home." 

"Mmm," Jack swivels in his chair and eyes the thermos Michael is holding. "Geoff, did you make that in your new chemex?" 

"Yeah man," Geoff says. "That thing is _sweet._ Fuckin' 8 cups, unbleached filters, and curves in all the right places." 

Geoff pulls out his phone and starts to scroll through pictures, rolling his chair over to Jack. 

"Check it out," he says. 

"What a sweet, sweet coffeepot," Jack says, holding the phone now.

"So you jerked off into this coffee is what you're saying," Michael says, warily unscrewing the thermos cap. 

"Absolutely," Geoff says.

"No but seriously what the fuck is a chemex and why do you both want to have sex with it," Michael says.

"Old fashioned coffee pot, sort of," Jack explains. Geoff's got his phone back and he's poured himself a cup at his desk. 

"You pour hot water over fresh coffee grounds and it creates magic," Jack says. "It takes forever though. You have to stand there pouring water for, what, fifteen minutes?"

"All for a cup of coffee," Michael says. 

"It's worth it dude," Jack says.

The liquid is steaming and aromatic, filling the room with the smell of sweet and mellow coffee. Geoff sips it black and hot, not waiting for it to cool off, fiddling with his phone, and ignoring Michael. Michael pours half a cup into the lid of his thermos and lets it cool, still eyeing it warily.

"So it's better than shitty normal coffee?" Michael asks. Geoff chuckles lightly, still ignoring Michael but not missing the comment. 

"So, _so_ much better," Jack says. Jack swivels his chair over to Michael's side of the room. "I can take that off your hands, Michael. I know how much you hate coffee. Actually, I have a red bull in the fridge I'll bring you--"

"Fuck OFF Jack," Michael bristles. "Jesus Christ, fuckin coffee creep over here." 

Jack maneuvers himself back to his desk, crossing his arms in a pout. 

"I never get special coffee," he says.

"Well maybe you're not Geoff's special little lad," Michael says in a sing-song voice, trying to get Geoff's attention. 

But Geoff is still ignoring him and actually it's starting to piss him off. Who the fuck brings someone allegedly special coffee and then just ignores him like an annoying pet? Stupid fucking coffee. Stupid Jack. And now that he's passed Jack up, he is stuck with this shitty coffee when he could've had a perfectly good, cold red bull. Who even drinks coffee in the middle of summer. Who even makes special coffee. He take an angry sip of the cooling, stupid, shitty coffee. 

It's fucking delicious. 

Completely smooth and flavorful, not bitter at all. Doesn't even need cream and sugar. It's the best goddamn coffee he's ever dreamed of. Goddamn it.

"Fucking FINE," Michael says after a moment. "You win Geoff, this coffee is awesome." 

Geoff finally looks up, phone in one hand and coffee in the other.

"Yeah? You'll actually drink some?" 

"Yeah I'll drink this entire goddamn container, Geoff, fuck," Michael says. "I'll bounce off the goddamn walls, it's delicious, what do you want from me." 

Geoff smiles at him wickedly before turning his back to Michael and fiddling with his computer.

"Yeah," Geoff says to no one in particular. "That's my boy right there."

\--

\- JUNE 2013 - 

Geoff takes a week off in late June and it sucks. Not only is the office dynamic just weird without him, Michael realizes, there's nobody making him stupid chemex coffee. 

Since that day last month, Geoff has supplied Michael with a fresh thermos of home-brewed coffee every morning. He quietly comes into the office, shuffling like Frankenstein with heavy-lidded eyes, pressing the thermos into Michael's hands without a word (sometimes without even acknowledging that Michael was anything more than a pair of outstretched hands waiting to accept a cup of coffee), and then sits down at his desk.

"Thanks, Geoff," Michael says every morning.

"Mnn," Geoff says.

Nobody really says anything about it. Ray and Gavin had both asked what he was drinking the first time they noticed. Jack would occasionally try to trade him a red bull for at least a little cup from the thermos. Nobody but Michael even thinks to question why he alone was receiving this special coffee treatment.

And at the end of each day, Geoff packs up and makes his way to Michael's desk to retrieve his thermos. Michael had started to clean the thermos meticulously in the kitchen as soon as he'd emptied its contents so that Geoff wouldn't have to bother with it at home.

"Thanks, Geoff," Michael says, watching the man retrieve his thermos.

"Mnn," Geoff says. "'Night."

So when Geoff's on vacation, Michael is in a bind. He's really hard up for some good coffee without Geoff there.

He attempts to drink some of the office drip coffee, which tastes somehow like burned hay. One morning during Geoff's absence, he ventures out to a gas station and gets coffee that smells more like Geoff's but is still, unfortunately, disgusting. Watery and flavorless. 

Michael gives up and grudgingly digs a five dollar bill from his pocket to buy the largest can of red bull he can find. The guy at the register points out a 2-for-1 deal and he ends up buying 6 cans of the neon yellow drink which he then unhappily totes back to the office and deposits in the fridge. 

On Monday, Geoff is back. Michael notices the man's fresh sunburn as he shuffles in, sunglasses still on his face. He's got his bag but the coffee thermoses are conspicuously absent. 

Well, Michael thinks to himself, it was good while it lasted. Back to disgusting red bull fucking me in the wallet every day. 

Michael waits for Geoff to get settled at his desk, still wondering if he might miraculously produce two thermoses from his bag. No such luck as Geoff logs in and begins getting organized for the week. 

Michael creeps past him and makes his way to the kitchen. Someone has started a pot of drip coffee in the machine, and on a whim Michael grabs a mug from the cabinet and pours a cup out. The machine drips and fizzes angrily "tss, tss," onto the hot plate in the absence of the pot. The sizzling coffee smells kind of disgusting but it's worth a shot. He grabs a can of his red bull from the fridge and maneuvers his way back to the Achievement Hunter office.

"Geoff, uhh, figured you might need some coffee after your vacation," Michael says, setting the cup of black liquid in front of Geoff before making his way back to his desk quickly. He's not sure how the cup will be received. 

Geoff sits there with his back to Michael, not moving a muscle. What the fuck, Michael thinks. He opens the cold can in his hands and takes a swig. Finally Geoff's shoulders slump and he spins in his chair to face Michael.

"I ca-an't," Geoff says, his voice breaking ridiculously. "I'm hea-artbroken," he says, breaking again.

"Aw Geoffy," Michael says. "What's wrong?"

"I broke my fuckin chemex dude," Geoff says. Jack looks up from his desk.

"Aw no!" Jack says. "What the hell happened?"

"I made a misca-alculation," Geoff says, his voice continuing to break in a joke. "Knocked it off the counter and shattered it all to shit." 

\---

Geoff goes out to lunch and a meeting with Gus that day, and Michael gives in to an idea he's been kicking around all morning. He finally googled what the fuck a chemex coffee brewer is, finding out that it's only about $40 and he could buy one at the mall and probably be back to work before Geoff returns. 

You're gonna look like such a fuckin suck up, Michael tells himself. You could at least wait, like, two days. 

He tries to talk himself out of the stupid move before deciding to just firm up his spot as the office brown noser. He gets in his car. It's half an hour to the Gateway Shopping Center, a big fancy mall where he most definitely feels out of place. 

He feels even worse when he enters his destination: Crate and mother fucking Barrel. 

It's full of bustling well-dressed moms pushing enormous baby contraptions and well-coiffed employees sporting clothes that are, unlike Michael's, actually fucking ironed. He avoids eye contact like a pro, though, finding his way to the area of the store where there are kitchen goods, deflecting employees and other shoppers, finding a chemex coffeemaker box, and making his way to the counter to check out. 

"Is this a gift?" asks the young woman scanning the item at the register. Michael panics internally for a second--the fuck did she know about why he was buying a coffeemaker? Did she think he wasn't fancy enough for stupid fancy coffee? Man fuck this place, fuck Crate and Barrel. 

"Because gift wrapping is complimentary right now," she continues after a moment. "Uhh. If you want it?" 

"Oh uh," Michael stumbles. "Yeah sure, yeah. Thanks."  

\---

The gift looks even more ridiculous sitting on Geoff's desk than Michael had planned. The Crate & Barrel employee really went over the top--not stopping at the discreet and sophisticated black and white box, black ribbon, but adding what looked like an entire bouquet of paper flowers to the top of the box.

Michael had tried, fleetingly, to untie the ridiculous flowers in the RT parking lot before thinking "Fuck it--you know what? Fuck it. Fuck _it,_ fuck _me,_ fuck my life, Geoff gets flowers."

The Achievement Hunter office is thankfully empty when he returns, no one back from lunch yet. He unceremoniously dumps the package on top of Geoff's desk, crams headphones on, and sinks into his chair to get busy editing. 

I am _such_ a fucking asshole, he thinks as people trickle into the office. Michael has forgotten that they're recording that afternoon, which means it's going to be a full house when Geoff finds his gift. Fucking perfect, of course. He should've waited.

Or, better yet, he could have just tried not being a suck up creep and ignored the situation entirely. Grown men don't sneak out of the office to buy each other little presents during the day, he reminds himself.

"Geoff having a baby shower or summat," Gavin asks, plopping down into the chair next to Michael. 

"He must have a secret admirer," Ryan says, making himself comfortable on the couch. "I wish someone would bring _me_ flowers." 

Everyone is in position at their desks except Geoff and the seconds tick by conspicuously. This is so dumb, Michael thinks. I couldn't hate myself more. 

Everyone is busy setting up, getting organized.

Geoff finally enters the office, surveying those inside and closing the door when he sees everyone is there. Michael doesn't move an inch, pretends to be utterly engrossed in setup. 

"Aw, who got me a present," Geoff says, already swooping to his desk. "This is beau-utiful!" he says, forcing a voice crack. "You guys are right, I _do_ deserve presents," he says picking up the box. "There'd better not be a dildo in this damn box." 

He unwraps it, not commenting on the flowers, and crunching all of the decorations and wrapping paper into a small trash can under his desk. The others are standing around him now (except Ryan, trapped by his TV tray and setup), just as curious as Geoff is to see what's inside the box. Michael sheepishly gets up last, standing on the outside of the circle, hands jammed as deep into his pockets as he can. 

"What is it, Geoff," Gavin asks. 

"OH MY SWEET CHEMEX," Geoff says, mustering up the type of jubilance normally reserved for Vs victories. "SWEET, SWEET BEAUTIFUL COFFEE MAKER, I THOUGHT I'D LOST YA." He holds the box out at arm's length for a moment, examining the picture of the slick modern coffee pot. Some expression flicks across his face, and then Geoff is putting the box back down and bum rushing Michael.

"MICHAEL," Geoff says, still too loud, now grabbing him in a bear hug. "YA SAVED THE DAY, BUDDY." The others laugh as Geoff pins his arms to his side and lifts Michael easily off the floor. 

"Michaelll," Gavin coos. "Such a good friend!" 

Michael is blushing now, as Geoff deposits him unceremoniously back on the floor. 

"You have earned your coffee, buddy," Geoff says. 

"Thank fucking Christ," Michael says. "A week without you and your coffee was long enough." 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's almost tasteful, he thinks. For a dick piercing. "

 

\- AUGUST 2013, THURSDAY NIGHT - 

Geoff is practically panting now, sitting casually at the end of his bed with Michael kneeling between his knees, nothing separating them but one flimsy layer of cotton. Michael revels in the sight, Geoff half bathed in moonlight. Geoff's face holds nothing back as Michael begins to touch him, to explore his arousal through the layer of underwear. Each new sensation is rewarded with a new noise from Geoff, ranging from pleased hums to hitched breath, as Michael handles him. 

He's gone through the scenario enough times in his head, but Michael still feels a bit like he's fumbling. He's familiar enough with the equipment setup but the angles are all wrong. And the equipment, he admits to himself, is bigger than he expected. 

Michael strokes Geoff's thigh and leans down to mouth the curves of Geoff's erection through the cotton. Something about the entire situation is even more arousing than Michael had expected--Michael naked, feeling the promise of Geoff's dick through his drawers. 

Michael is perfectly content to just do _this_ for a while but Geoff is clumsily pawing at his own underwear, hooking the boxer briefs down hastily. Michael sinks back onto his heels to allow Geoff to kick off the garment.

Sweet merciful lord in heaven above, Michael thinks to himself. Geoff's dick is pierced. Swing low, sweet chariot.

Honestly it shouldn't come as a surprise. But this sweet detail is something that Michael had never dreamed up in his wildest masturbation fantasies. The proportions are rather lovely, Michael thinks, closing the gap between them. His fingers ghost up Geoff's thighs to rest at the base of his cock as he stares at the piercing. It occurs to him that he's never even touched a body piercing and he has _so many_ questions about this particular one but he has to remind himself that now isn't the time.

A seamless, thick ring made of black metal emerges from the tip of Geoff's cock, traces the shape of the head, and disappears on the underside. It's just a small, understated piece of jewelry, thick gauged, and--Michael thinks--so damn intriguing. 

It's almost _tasteful_ , he thinks. For a dick piercing. 

Michael uses the piercing as a starting point, steadying himself to hold the base of Geoff's cock as he traces the jewelry with his tongue, finding it smooth, warm, heavy. Geoff hums, pleased, somewhere in the dark above him. He has no clue how to give a blow job, but there's no chance he'd even want to turn back now. 

Michael circles the piercing gently with his tongue and then just his lips, then makes his way down the shaft with dry, chaste kisses. He's never kissed a dick before. The skin is so delicate against his lips--dry, thin, pressing warm and insistent. Geoff is making soft, affirmative noises above him, propped on the bed, and Michael doesn't have the heart to look up yet. 

More dry kisses lead to Geoff's thighs, Michael's lips grazing the light hairs he finds there. It's different, but not unpleasant. He buries his face a bit deeper, lifting Geoff's cock to kiss the bottom of its base, his balls, the bottom of his balls. Geoff is panting above him. Michael is practically drooling now as he finally puts his tongue to work, planting a slow, slick streak from the base of Geoff's balls up to the entry of the piercing. Geoff's dick twitches in Michael's hand as he finishes the lick.

"Oh my god," Geoff says above him. "Christ Michael." 

Michael holds Geoff's base steady as he envelops the head, surprised for a moment by the slightly bitter pearl of precum waiting for him there. He hums softly around Geoff, who echoes it back to him in appreciation. It's a strange mix of metal and soft, firm flesh in his mouth as he bobs gently, working his tongue to explore every sweet angle. Michael's mouth waters around Geoff's cock. He breaks the connection for a moment, kissing up the top side now and moving to plant kisses--wet and hungry, no longer chaste and dry--on Geoff's hips, belly. He still doesn't look up, but Geoff is murmuring nonsense and assent. 

He hopes fleetingly that he's doing it right. It's easy to imagine what he'd like to feel on the receiving end, but infinitely more nerve wracking to try and deliver that type of pleasure. Michael knows that he's out of his depth and he could just as easily be fucking this up as actually pleasing Geoff.

He moves back to take Geoff is his mouth again, this time experimenting with taking more length. As he moves to take in more than the head, Michael's mouth feels suddenly inadequate, just too damn small to deal with Geoff's mass. There's so much at play--breathing, suction, his hand at the base of Geoff's cock, trying not to fucking fall over in the process. This is more difficult than he'd anticipated, Michael thinks as he breathes hard through his nose.

And of course his nose is starting to stuff up, lovely, wonderful, fuck my life, Michael thinks as he wonders what you're supposed to even do for air during a blow job if your nose won't cooperate. He finally gives in and breathes for a moment around Geoff's cock. Rivulets of saliva stream down Geoff's dick and hit Michael's hand below. He's even drooling on his own face a little bit, down his chin. Michael feels Geoff's weight shift and a sure hand threads itself through his hair. Geoff is humming above him, caressing his locks. Michael finally chances a look up.

Geoff's face is cracked wide with a white smile that goes slack the minute Michael's eyes meet his. Michael feels for a moment like his whole body is full up with Geoff, the smiles, the gentle chuckles under his breath, the moments when it's just been them. 

"Good. Lord. Michael," Geoff says, in a way that sounds like it's taking all of his capacity to form a few syllables of the English language. Michael smiles, then, the pounding in his chest gone, the insistent doubt dissolved, and Geoff brings a hand up to Michael's chin and swipes a thumb across his damp chin. He _must_ be doing a good job for Geoff, Michael thinks, to be rewarded with such a gentle touch, a warm look.

Michael goes back to his work earnestly after catching a moment of breath. He tries to forget the fact that he's basically drooling and just feels thankful for the extra lubrication as he works up and down Geoff's shaft with one hand, lavishing attention on the tip with his mouth. Geoff snakes a hand down again to rest at the back of Michael's scalp. It's not unpleasant or pushing--just a steadying force as he laps strokes up and down Geoff's dick, not going too deep, using his hand to take care of the base and shaft, trying hard not to gag.

There's so much to keep track of that Michael only barely registers it as Geoff's body tenses, as his breathing changes ever so slightly. The hand tightens at the back of Michael's skull, pulling at his curls. And now it _is_ forceful, a dead weight on top of his neck, pushing his mouth deeper onto Geoff's cock. 

 _Well, this is something,_ Michael thinks, a bit out of breath again, with something like panic in his chest. He's not sure if Geoff is close to coming or just impatient with his oral skills, but he begins to gag around Geoff's cock. It's a hollow, unpleasant sound that seems to wake both of them up and Michael's body shakes once in a hard, involuntary reaction to the gag. 

Geoff goes still and stiff, the hand dropping from Michael's hair.

"You ok?" Michael asks, his hand still around Geoff's base. Moonlight streams in through half open blinds but Geoff's face is turned towards the dark side of the room. Michael struggles to make out the expression there, to read the hitch in his breathing.

"Yeah, no, it's ok," Geoff says. The words sound fake, Michael thinks, although he can't identify what the fuck Geoff is trying to cover up. "Hey, sorry, you don't have to…" Geoff says. Geoff starts to push himself backwards on the bed, away from Michael. 

Jesus christ, Michael thinks. Was he really THAT bad? Was it because he gagged?

He follows Geoff up onto the bed. 

"I want to…" Michael says, reaching for the right words. "Did I do something?"

Geoff just sits there for a moment, halfway up the bed, staring at Michael like… like what? Like Michael is a bomb about to go off, he guesses. Like Michael is just some pathetic kid who made his way into his bed. Like he just got the worst blow job in the history of blow jobs, he thinks.

"No, Michael, come here," Geoff says after what feels like ten minutes. Geoff gathers Michael into his arms and they move to rest at the head of the bed. There's something edging into his voice and it makes Michael want to run away, to gather up his clothes from the foot of the bed, to hop on a bus, and forget about whatever had just happened. 

"It's just me," Geoff says. "You didn't do anything."

What the fuck, Michael thinks. What the _fuck?_

"But I want you to come," Michael finally says, not entirely sure whether or not he sounds pathetic. He strokes Geoff's hip, but it's not much of anything. They've both lost their arousals. Afraid of what he might see in Geoff's face now, Michael stares off into the dark side of the room, studying the shadows there as his heart pounds hard. 

"I don't think I can come," Geoff says in the matter of fact way that you might tell someone that you're out of milk or that the mail hasn't come yet. "You know, just weird shit." 

 _Weird shit like some shitty kid who can't give oral to save his life,_ Michael thinks. There's a bubble of anger he's choking on, anger at himself and his failure. 

"Weird shit. Got ya." He can feel his face hardening. Jesus Christ, he'd had his chance, he's in Geoff's bed, five minutes ago he'd had the man's dick in his mouth and he'd ruined it. Somehow. Crash and burn. No survivors.

"Do you want some water--maybe some Gatorade or something?" Geoff offers. He's starting to get out of bed, seems frantic to get away from Michael. Who the fuck offers Gatorade to some dude who just sucked your dick, Michael wonders.

"I'm good," he says.

He can hear Geoff pawing around on the floor. 

"You should go ahead and drink something before you go to sleep," Geoff says. "You're going to have a wicked hangover when you wake up."

It dawns on Michael that Geoff thinks he's been drunk this entire time. He _wishes_ he were drunk. It occurs to him that maybe if he plays it off, pretends that he _was_ wasted, it could make up for his shortcomings as a lover. So yeah, whatever, let him be drunk if that will help this damage control or whatever was going to take place between them now.

"OK, fine _dad,_ " Michael says finally. He works his voice into a reasonable facsimile of the joking way they speak to each other in the office. "I'll never drink again. Get me some Gatorade," he finishes in an ugly, petulant tone. With that he flops to his side, facing away from Geoff.

He listens as Geoff pads out of the room and retrieves something out of the fridge, another something out of a cabinet. It's like a mission at this point: minimize contact, get out as unscathed as possible, but just get the fuck out. He quickly considers the logistics of gathering up his shit and leaving right now, but he knows it wouldn't jive well with pretending to be drunk. 

So when Geoff pads barefoot back into the room, Michael is already pretending to be asleep, breathing deep and ignoring the other man's presence. 

The mattress shifts as Geoff gets into bed beside him, and for a fleeting moment Michael imagines Geoff sidling up to him, embracing him, and telling him in a sweet, low voice that they could try again, that it was all a misunderstanding, that Geoff wanted to be with him. 

But there's no more movement after that, and  Geoff falls into a deep, rhythmic breath. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean, fucking christ, Geoff thinks to himself. I can remember Michael's birthmarks. I could describe his perfect dick to a court of law. I'm not crazy.

\- AUGUST 2013, FRIDAY MORNING - 

Geoff sleeps hard that night and wakes up on Friday feeling halfway fevered. He smells like stale sweat and Michael Jones is not in his bed. He fumbles blindly for his phone and then clicks it on. 6:50--the sun isn't even properly out yet. 

And then there's Michael in the doorway, half-lit, dressed in his clothes from last night, jingling keys and fumbling with his phone. 

"Michael," Geoff starts--but he's cut off.

"Morning Geoff--I gotta get to my car and get back to my place before it's 80 million goddamn degrees outside--see you in a while, man." There's no time for Geoff to get a word in and Michael has disappeared, shutting the door quietly behind himself. 

Well, fuck. 

Geoff unlocks his phone, brings Michael up in his list of recent texts. Their last texts had been on Wednesday, a stupid exchange quoting from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia ("I eat stickers all the time, dude!").

He starts to type out a question--"Hey can we talk"--but lets it sit there instead. Deletes it. Decides to see how the morning plays out on its own.

\---- 

The walk back to the bar to get his own car feels more than a little bit like a walk of shame to Geoff and sadly, as he immediately sweats through his shirt, he realizes Michael was right about getting there before it got too hot. He's sweating real droplets by the time he's seated in the car, cranking the air conditioning. Michael's car is already gone. Not surprising. 

It's too much quiet time for Geoff. He realizes that he usually sleepwalks through the mornings, getting ready and taking his own sweet time getting to work with nothing much on his mind but the last night's dreams. This morning, though, he feels wired--trying to press together the events of the night before into a shape that makes sense. 

Even though Michael had come on to him, it hadn't been the right thing to do. It shouldn't have gone further than Michael's first kiss in the bathroom. The kid was obviously fucked up, confused by all of his stupid teasing, egged on by the never-ending gay jokes that flowed like water around the office. 

But, Geoff realizes, he _let_ it go on. He had let down the defenses that usually surrounded Michael in that guarded off part of his consciousness. 

And who could blame him. Michael was so sweet, so perfect. His eagerness to please was enough to make a lesser man hard, and he--

No. Geoff stops this line of thinking. There is no situation, no excuse that made the night with Michael excusable. He is being ridiculous and, moreover, he is acting like a fucking creep. 

Michael is his employee. His friend. His junior by a dozen fucking years. He has a responsibility to take care of Michael, to keep him out of harm's way. Even if that means keeping Michael out of his bedroom and his dreams and his stupid fantasies indefinitely. 

\---

When Geoff enters the office, he is assaulted by the smell of fried food. What would normally be delicious turns his hungover stomach. 

Ray, Jack, Michael, and Gavin have all beat him to the office, and they're circled around a big brown paper bag bleeding through with grease, chattering like high school kids before class. 

"Heyyyy Geoff!" Gavin beams. "Jack brought us chicken buns!"

"What the fuck is a chicken bun," Geoff says dryly. 

"He means chicken biscuits," Jack says.

"Well a biscuit is a cookie, innit," Gavin insists. 

And there's Michael, mouth working away at a greasy chicken biscuit, face scrubbed pink, hair washed, outfit fresh for the day. 

"Perfect hangover food, right Geoffy?" Michael says over an inscrutable but not entirely unfriendly stare. "Just what I needed today."

"That's not turning your stomach?" Geoff asks.

"Nah man," Michael says, mouth full. "Guess I just needed to toss my cookies last night and then it was all good from there. Thanks again for getting me home safe." 

It clicks into place, the lie they told, the lie that Michael is now making sure to communicate, reinforce again. Setting it up. A brick fucking wall of a lie, defining their relationship before 6:50 a.m. this morning and after it.

"Well, I brought you some coffee," Geoff says, offering the thermos. 

"Ah now _that_ I don't think I can do today," Michael says. Geoff squints at him. What is he playing at. He always takes the damn coffee. "You game for some high-end Ramsey-brand coffee, Jack?"

"Yoink!" Jack says, grinning and taking the coffee meant for Michael. "Finally my day has come."

\---

Geoff and Michael had once had a long conversation over lunch in the kitchen one day about the concept of kayfabe. It had come after Michael made a crack about "not breaking kayfabe" during a Let's Play they were recording. He was implying that they shouldn't talk about the fact that they were going to have to edit anything out of the recording because of its inappropriate content. If you talk about it, you acknowledge it--and then the viewers get angry. 

"Now there's a word you don't hear every day," Geoff had said. 

And when they retired to the kitchen later, Michael explained that in professional wrestling, kayfabe is the shared lie within the industry that everything going on in the ring is real. The rivalries, the competitions, pretending that it's all real life and not staged, not a script. Even though it was obvious that pro wrestling was mostly faked (in its own way, depending on who you talked to), the industry had decided not to "break kayfabe," not to talk about the fact that it was all an act. 

It became a great shorthand for when they were recording and trying to tell each other to shut up--whether the talk was getting too raunchy, too personal, too ridiculously racist (even if it was 'just a joke'). Basically a nice way of saying "shut the fuck up before we start a war with our viewers." 

Don't break kayfabe. Don't make me edit this shit. 

And that Friday, the concept becomes one that Geoff finds he and Michael are living out in real life. Michael has apparently decided, as far as Geoff can tell, that he will not break kayfabe. There simply had not been a night between them. The only moment they had shared in the bathroom had been one while Michael puked into a dirty public toilet before being ushered out by his boss. 

As far as Michael and the rest of the team was concerned, he's never even seen the inside of Geoff's bedroom. 

From what Geoff can tell, Michael seems to be handling it fine. They have a lot of recording to finish up that day, a few episodes of different shorter features that require them to be "on" back to back to back, performing and keeping energy high. 

Michael's energy rings true. His jokes are on point. 

By lunchtime, Geoff has convinced himself that it is even a possibility that Michael had been so drunk the previous night that he doesn't even _remember_ what had transpired. He doesn't seem hungover today, but maybe that's because he's young, resilient. 

But even if he doesn't remember, Geoff has resolved that it's not right _not_ to talk about it. He decides to take a chance.

"Michael, let's go to Home Slice for lunch," Geoff says. "My treat."

"Ah, no can do man," Michael says.

"Michael and I are going to Jersey Mike's for lunch," Gavin chimes in. "Wanna come?"

"Maybe another day, lads," Geoff says. 

\---

Michael avoids every situation that could possibly mean being alone with Geoff on Friday. It is, in fact, the only thing that is detectably out of the ordinary in the office. He doesn't leave the Achievement Hunter office alone all day--not to hit the bathroom, not to hit the kitchen. Geoff knows because he's been consciously seeking an opportunity to corner Michael all day. They need to damn talk. Kayfabe or not, this is ridiculous.

At the end of the day, Michael offers Ray a ride home and the two start walking out to the parking lot together. Geoff follows them out the door, trotting to catch up with them. It's now or never and he's not mentally prepared to wrestle with this all fucking weekend.

"Hey Michael hold up," he says as they push through the front doors of the Roosterteeth office. "I need to work with you on something this weekend if you have a sec," Geoff says discreetly, trying his best to be tactful around Ray.

"Sorry Geoff, I'll be incommunicado all weekend," Michael says.

"All fucking weekend, Michael?" 

"Yeah, I'm sorry. Some friends are in from out of town and we're going camping at McKinney Falls tomorrow," Michael says. "Can't even get cell reception there. Won't be back until Monday morning." 

Geoff knows this is a fucking lie. Michael has never in his life mentioned camping and he knows for a fact that Michael hates being outdoors in the summer. It's starting to piss him off. Did he really google the name of a campground just to have a plausible excuse if Geoff cornered him? 

"Really. Camping," Geoff says flatly. "Never pegged you as a camper."

"Never pegged you as someone with friends," Ray interjects. "Sounds fishy."

"What can I say," Michael retorts. "I'm a man of many secrets. See you Monday, Geoff?"

And because he knows they won't get a moment alone, now, Geoff gives Michael a long look, holding his eye contact as long as the man will let him. _What are you doing, Michael Jones,_ he thinks at Michael, squinting. 

Ray's already turned to continue walking towards the car. Michael's face falls--just for a moment, a micro-expression, almost undetectable. He gives his shoulders the slightest shrug before he regains control, flashing his widest and most convincing smile.

"Have a great weekend then, boss," Michael says. He jogs to catch up with Ray and the two of them are gone.

\-- 

Predictably, it bothers Geoff all weekend. And like an asshole, he turns down any offer of plans and distraction from the outside world, opting instead to shut himself into his apartment, drinking early and drinking hard, playing video games. 

He ventures a text on Saturday to Michael. 

"How's camping?" 

It goes unanswered. It wears on Geoff--not so much the idea that Michael has lied to him or that Michael won't speak to him, but more the idea that Michael has holed himself up in his tiny apartment for the entire weekend, refusing to leave so that he could pretend to be camping. He's really wrecked the kid's head and he knows it for a fact now.

For once the drinking is a blessing. Geoff makes his mind up approximately one thousand times over the course of the weekend to drive over to Michael's apartment and knock on his door, sit there until Michael finally gives in and opens the door, lets Geoff talk through it. Lets Geoff apologize to him. He needs some damn closure.

But each time he works up the resolve, Geoff is too buzzed to get behind the wheel. 

 _I'm being stupid,_ he tells himself. _Acting like a lovesick teenager._ He throws himself into distraction, brainstorming Things to Do in the newest games, and rides out the weekend as it turns into a gentle blur.

\-- 

On Monday, Geoff resumes his normal schedule. Dragging himself out of bed. Standing under a pounding shower head until he's halfway coherent. Setting a kettle full of hot filtered water on a burner. Grinding 8 cups of fresh coffee beans in a deafening burr grinder. Setting a fresh paper filter in the top chamber of the chemex coffee maker that Michael had given him. Tipping the fresh grounds into the filter. Letting the water boil. A thirty-second pause to let the water cool, lest it make the brew too bitter. An abbreviated pour over the grounds, letting the coffee bloom, before pouring in earnest. The pleasant trickle of coffee from the top chamber of the coffee pot to the bottom. 

Normally he enjoys the morning ritual but today he's dreading rejection. He can't foresee a future where Michael, after all his lies to avoid Geoff, actually accepts the coffee. It's a small gesture, really, but it speaks volumes. Coffee time is over. Their friendship, probably, is over.

Geoff pulls both thermoses out and realizes that unlike Michael, Jack did not studiously wash out his container on Friday before returning it. It sat soiled over the weekend and smells earthy, stale inside. He scalds the thermos with hot water, scouring the inside and the attached cup. Not thinking of Michael. Anything but that, at this point. Fucking Monday.

The next ten minutes are spent absentmindedly tending the brewing pour-over coffee. Pour, pour. Wait. Pour, pour, wait. Finally the bottom chamber is full of fresh coffee. He discards the grounds and filter, fills up both thermoses with the steaming hot coffee and tightly screws on the tops, knowing from experience that the insulated thermoses will keep the brew at nearly the same temperature for hours.

It would definitely stay hot--at least until Michael, Jack, whoever wanted to drink the fucking coffee this morning, unscrewed the cap. 

\--

On his drive in, Geoff tries to predict the morning. Michael with his thinly veiled excuses about camping. A dour mood, a sulky pout after a weekend shut into his apartment pretending to be camping, and the rejection of Geoff's stupid coffee. 

But when he enters the Achievement Hunter office, two thermoses in hand, the opposite is true. Jack and Michael are there already--always the early birds--and Michael hones in on him immediately, standing up from his chair, reaching out for the coffee.

"Jesus Christ do I need this brew this morning Geoff," Michael says, seemingly not noticing how flabbergasted Geoff is. "I could fucking kiss you for this."

" _I'd_ kiss Geoff if he'd make _me_ some damn coffee," Jack says under his breath. 

"My entire body is wrecked," Michael says. "Please remind me never to go camping with a bunch of morons from New Jersey again. Please say you have something in that bag that I can eat for breakfast. Camping food fucking sucks and they just dropped me off." 

Geoff doesn't know what to say. He reaches into his bag and produces an apple and a candy bar, both of which Michael grabs without a second look. Geoff squints and sits down at his desk, unscrewing the lid of his own thermos to take a few gulps. Michael is wolfing down the candy bar between slurps of coffee. Geoff feels like he's fucking dreaming. Michael is sunburned and sweaty, honestly looking like someone has just dropped him off at work from a camping trip. 

"I brought everyone postcards," Michael says, discarding the candy wrapper and producing a stack of glossy cards. "McKinney Falls is legitimately probably the prettiest place on earth." Michael pushes a few of the postcards into Geoff's hands. "You'd probably love it--although maybe don't be an asshole like me and wait until it's not so hot," he says. 

Geoff sets down his coffee and flips through the postcards. Breathtaking waterfalls. Large, jagged rock structures. White flowers blooming in spring. 

"I have a metric fuck ton of pictures of my stupid friends jumping into the falls that I'll make you look at someday," Michael says. "But my phone died yesterday. No fucking joke about no service out there. I thought I was going to get the DTs from lack of technology." 

Geoff feels thoroughly ashamed of himself. While he was locked away all weekend pining and worrying over Michael, Michael was out being a normal 20-something, jumping into stupidly beautiful waterfalls with his friends, buying 25 cent postcards for the boys back at the office. Certainly not thinking a second thought about Geoff, about Thursday evening--if he even remembered it. Geoff felt like an idiot, hot with shame recalling just how much liquor had been spilled over Michael Jones in the past 48 hours.

\--

As Monday wears on, Geoff's memories of Thursday night take on a surreal quality. Michael is acting, by all accounts, like you'd expect Michael Jones to act after a weekend of camping.

Geoff was definitely drunk on Thursday--you don't just drink until you lost count of your drinks and then claim that you were sober--but there's no way he dreamed the entire situation. Sure, Geoff had done some stupid shit that could be chalked up to liquor but… never creating an entire scenario out of nowhere.

He tries to piece together a timeline of the day. Thursday afternoon, the entire office decides to go out to the bar near Geoff's apartment where there's the stupid Street Fighter II machine. They all show up, sharing rides. Geoff and Michael drive separately. There's a flow of time that runs together a bit… Geoff plays a round with Ray… Heads to the bathroom. Michael is there with him, kissing him, saying in every way that he can that he wants to go home with Geoff. Geoff can't remember saying yes--but clearly he doesn't say no. They offer up a lame excuse about Michael being sick. There's a short walk back to his apartment. Kissing, heavy petting. More.

 _I mean, fucking christ_ , Geoff thinks to himself. _I can remember Michael's birthmarks. I could describe his perfect dick to a court of law. I'm not crazy._  

\--

If Geoff thought Michael was the type to make up stupid lies about what he was doing over the weekend, he had sorely underestimated his employee. 

The lead up to his approaching Geoff in the bar was not some random encounter or a chance decision. Michael had known all along that his stupid high school friends would be in town that weekend. He'd thought long and hard about the fact that, if he were going to make a move on his asshole boss, the week before the trip to McKinney Falls would be a good time. 

After all: if he crashed and burned and got rejected, at least he'd have something to take his mind off of it all. And if he didn't crash and burn, he had thought to himself… if by some stroke of complete irrational luck Geoff was actually receptive to his advances… Michael would be forced not to become a clingy little creep who begged to spend the entire weekend at Geoff's apartment. 

And, well. Clearly there is no danger of the latter at this point. 

So as his friends drive him back to work on Monday as they make their way to the airport, dropping him off without a shower or even the courtesy of a halfway decent breakfast, Michael does get Geoff's text.

"How's camping?"

Yeah. Geoff thought he was lying. Michael already knew this, the little look he got in the parking lot, the pouting Geoff did all afternoon on Friday. 

Michael had done plenty of soul searching that weekend. (He wondered what his high school buddies would think of him if they knew he was lying awake in the tent each night, wondering what to do about his thoroughly homosexual crush on his boss, about the soul-destroying rejection he had faced after a failed blow job. He also realized that anyone who gave a fuck probably wasn't worth having as a friend--but it wasn't quite the right situation to come out to this group in town from New Jersey. _Guess what fellas--I'm bi! And shitty at oral!)_

The facts, as Michael sees them that morning, are this: Geoff is a great boss. Geoff proved from the moment he started working at RT that he was also a great friend. Geoff and Michael have never had a hiccup in their friendship until now. And friends have issues, right? They weren't always weird, sexual, blow job issues--but then again, Michael had kind of forced that to begin with. 

Geoff is chill, Michael decides. _He'll see the wisdom in picking up right where we left off. He's kind enough to know that I just want to move forward._

So when the group dumps him at RT that morning, speeding off to catch an early flight, he approaches the situation with confidence. Nothing different. Why should it be? 

\---

By Friday of that week, Geoff is a fucking wreck. 

He's absolutely sure now that he didn't imagine any of it, but the way that Michael is acting makes Geoff feel like he only has a tenuous grip on reality. Michael acts like none of it ever happened, but is still careful each day not to be caught alone with Geoff. 

And each day Michael acts sweetly, doing his work, cheerfully going along with every recording. In early, out late, hard worker. Gulping his coffee, praising Geoff's talents, joking along with the rest of the team. 

But there's nothing there between them. The electricity sparking, the escalating jokes. It's not even the stupid sexual teasing that he misses between them--it's just the vague chemistry that added variety to his day. The shit that made him look forward to recording with Michael. The moments he used to look forward to every morning as he was grinding the stupid coffee. 

The sharp-edged jokes are all gone. Any rise he gets out of Michael is extinguished with one retort and Michael seems to edge back, most of the dynamic this week revolving around "Team Lads" and their wacky, manufactured adventures. 

And after a week of thinking about it, a week of watching Michael and trying to be cordial and trying to find a moment they could share together to talk about ANYTHING, just to not ignore the situation… Geoff is done. 

\----

It's  2 p.m. on Friday and the office is full, everyone on their computers finishing up for the week. Michael and Geoff sit with their backs facing each other. Geoff, after plenty of contemplation, pulls out his phone and brings up his text conversation with Michael. The last note was his lame question about camping--unanswered--and he blushes, feeling like an ass, but largely undeterred. He taps out a text.

>> Geoff: Cancel your plans for Saturday night.

He hears Michael's phone buzz dully in his pocket, listens as Michael shifts around to retrieve the phone. A thought bubble appears on Geoff's screen as Michael types a response. 

Then disappears.

Then appears. Disappears. Finally: 

>> Michael: Supposed to have Gavin over

Geoff taps back immediately:

>> Geoff: Then you'll cancel on him. He'll get over it

A thought bubble appears--Michael typing again. 

Then it disappears. Geoff hears Michael shifting uncomfortably at his desk.

Geoff counts a minute off. No response. Geoff taps another message:

>> Geoff: Come over at 5. I'll cook you dinner

Michael shoots back immediately:

>> Michael: Welp, this feels like a fucking trap

>> Geoff: No trap. Seriously relax

>> Michael: Fine boss

With that, Geoff locks his phone down again. He has no clue what he's doing, but he's not about to live through a repeat of last weekend.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, every dash break (---) designates a POV shift between Michael and Geoff.
> 
> If you're reading this, let me just take a moment to say THANK YOU. It took me a year to finish this and hopefully it was worth the gigantic pause in the middle of writing.

It doesn't occur to Michael until 4 on Saturday that if he's been invited over for dinner, he shouldn't show up empty handed.

 _As if I don't have enough inner turmoil to sort out right now,_ he thinks to himself. He quickly crushes down the negative feeling. Fleetingly Michael imagines himself showing up on Geoff's doorstep with a bouquet of flowers and a greeting card that reads "Sorry About the Failed Blow Job!" 

Mentally, Michael has been doing this--essentially chasing his tail--all day. Letting negative thoughts bubble up, crushing them down, replacing them with the type of self deprecating humor that has always gotten him through rejections, difficulties, the shitty stuff in life. He's not a kid--he can handle it. He's got coping mechanisms, and they involve a lot of jokes and cursing. And… well, trying to get away from the bad situation as fast as possible, he thinks. 

Geoff's a good guy and he should've predicted that there was never a chance he'd let Michael get away from the situation by just ignoring it, just avoiding him. No, Michael thinks. Geoff will need to "do the right thing," sit Michael down and probably come up with some sort of "it's not you, it's me" rejection.

But whatever. Whatever Geoff needs to tell himself to sleep at night. 

Michael is already over it, he says to himself. Insists to himself.  

He doesn't need the lies and the excuses. Sometimes one person throws himself at another person and it doesn't work out. It happens everywhere around the world, he thinks, probably every minute of every day. The only way to get over it is to get on with your damn life. 

Not that Geoff is going to let him do that. Obviously. The man would rather trap Michael for probably hours, making his stupid infatuation (or whatever it is) harder to ignore, forcing Michael not only to face rejection but to spend even MORE time with his boss. 

After getting dressed--choosing more carefully what he'll wear than Michael is willing to admit to himself--he heads to H.E.B. for a bottle of wine. 

\---

Geoff is up by 8 that morning, cruising through the grocery store to pick up a raw flank steak, garlic, all of the ingredients he needs to cook tonight. He's back to his apartment by 9, chopping and mixing, creating a marinade for the steak, prepping a side dish--even though Michael won't be showing up for, what, another 8 hours? Christ. 

Geoff realizes that to anyone from the outside looking in, it looks like he's getting ready for a really, really important date. 

His stomach is in knots like it would be before date, too.

Get a fucking grip, he thinks to himself. 

He couldn't sleep, anyway, so he might as well be up, cleaning and cooking and prepping. He wants the apartment to be comfortable and the food to be great--hoping maybe it will make the whole situation feel less like a trap. Which it's not. Totally not a trap. They just need to talk, Geoff thinks. 

And anyway, Michael is forcing his hand by avoiding him at work every day. They could've cleared this up in a few minutes a fucking week ago if Michael hadn't been treating him like a leper--or a predator, he thinks.

He just needs to sit Michael down, he thinks, and tell him the truth. 

Well.

 _Some_ of the truth.

Not all of the truth. That would be bad. That would be a Hindenburg-level disaster.

Because, Geoff thinks, all of the truth would include statements such as:

"You were even better than I anticipated in all of the sex dreams I've had about you," and...

"If I weren't twelve years older than you, and your boss, and an enormous fucking asshole, this would definitely be a date," and…

"I hope there is a time in the future when I can look at your mouth without remembering how good it looks it around my cock," and…

"The more you avoid me, the more I want to slam you against a wall, get off those stupid fucking pants, and hear you whine for me." 

So. Right. _Some_ of the truth.

\--

Michael is in the parking lot at 4:50. Early, as usual, like a fucking moron. 

He leans back the driver's seat slightly and unlocks his phone, cycling through any stupid game he can find to occupy his mind until he's not early.

He won't be caught dead showing up to this perfectly orchestrated nightmare _early._ Fuck that.

\--

Geoff recognizes the faint squeal of Michael's squeaky brakes at 4:50 and peers out the kitchen window. The steak is finishing up in a pan, frying and crackling in the background as he watches Michael park with the car's trunk facing Geoff's apartment. 

Michael is… just sitting there. And a knot grows in Geoff's stomach as he wonders whether or not Michael is actually going to get out of the car and come inside or if he's going to turn around and go home. He wipes his hands on a dish towel and goes back to tending the steak. 

\--

At 5:01, Michael rings Geoff's doorbell. Geoff is to the door too fast, opening it almost immediately. 

"I brought uh, wine," Michael says, talking fast, putting two bottles in brown paper bags into Geoff's hands while stepping through the door. "Red and white, didn't know what you were making. Jesus _Christ_ Geoff it smells incredible in here." 

It really does smell incredible. Something is popping and crackling in a grill pan and a light smoke wafts through the apartment. Michael's mouth waters involuntarily as he takes a seat at a barstool facing the kitchen.

Geoff sets the wine down on his countertop, freeing both bottles from their bags, putting the white wine into his fridge.

"Michael," Geoff says flatly, his back to the Michael. "Did you just sit outside in your car for _exactly_ eleven minutes?"

Oh jesus, Michael thinks. Why didn't he park somewhere where Geoff couldn't see him?

Geoff turns to look at him, head cocked to one side.

"Uh, guilty as charged," Michael finally says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"What the fuck dude," Geoff says, not angry, a smile on his face. 

"I was uh," Michael's mind races, not sure if he should make a joke or be serious. He decides, after a beat, that he should feel out the situation by saying something somewhere between those two options.

"I was carefully crafting my apology for such a shitty blow job," Michael finally ventures, a smile on his face in case Geoff doesn't laugh.

But Geoff does laugh, a hard chuckle that wracks his shoulders as Geoff squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, a hand flying up to massage his forehead as if he's immediately getting a headache.

"Jeeesus Christ, Michael," he says, amused. "Just wow."

"I mean, I didn't write it down or anything," Michael says. "I looked for a card at H.E.B. but most of the homoerotic ones were sold out." 

Geoff is still laughing.

"God," Geoff says, shaking his head, "We are just going to launch right into it aren't we?"

Michael shrugs, eyebrows raised, mouth a flat line. What else did Geoff want, if not to launch right into it? Might as well get it into the open, bring it up himself and make it into a joke. The best defense is a good offense, right? Or something like that.

Geoff straightens out, no longer laughing at him. 

"No, honestly," Geoff says. "It's good. I'm glad. From the way you were avoiding me this week, I halfway expected you to deny the whole thing tonight." 

"I would be _perfectly_ happy to do that," Michael says, seriously. "I think that might be a _real great_ plan actually. I'm rethinking the whole apology thing now. We should just have, you know, a cool hetero hangout and eat some--what is that--steak?" 

"Yeah, flank steak," Geoff says. "But no, we need to talk."

"Fine," Michael says, petulant. "Can I at least negotiate for some small talk, first? I don't want things to get so awkward that I have to leave before eating any of that steak." 

\--

Geoff lets them do the small talk thing. And actually, it feels incredible. It feels like Michael is his _friend_ again. 

He pours them both a modest glass of the red wine Michael brought. They bounce around from topic to topic and he can almost see Michael physically relax. Sure, he's still strung tight as a fiddle, but as the conversation continues, Michael becomes more animated, less guarded. It's a relief. Watching Michael just act naturally and be himself makes something in Geoff's chest swell pleasantly.

Michael is off on some monologue about the last season of Game of Thrones, and Geoff finds his mind wandering. He'd worried that Michael would never let down his guard around him again--and ultimately, wasn't that the part of Michael that made him so attractive as a friend, as a human being? There were no defenses there and his willingness to tell the truth, to make himself the butt of every joke, makes him seem younger than he really is. 

As Michael continues, Geoff cuts the large steak into delicate slices, which he then arranges onto two dinner plates. He laughs at Michael's diatribe about Peter Dinklage, complete with an impersonation, as he continues plating their meal, artfully drizzling a zig zag of reduced sauces over the top. 

"Let's eat, man," Geoff finally interrupts.

"Jesus Geoff, I thought you'd never say the words," Michael says. "Watching you do whatever sort of chef shit I just saw you do there was inhumane. I need to eat." 

Geoff sets their plates at two prepared places and Michael brings over the wine glasses. They sit down and Michael raises his glass.

"Cheers to at least one of us not being a miserable asshole with no idea how to cook," Michael says, smiling. They clink glasses, sip, and Michael enthusiastically tucks into the meat. 

"Holy shit Geoff," Michael says, mouth full. "So, theoretically, would it be rude to eat, say, five or six servings of this? Asking for a friend." 

"There's two pounds of steak, buddy," Geoff says, pleased that Michael likes it. "But keep in mind this isn't a goddamn gummy bear challenge." 

Michael pretends to shudder.

"Ugh please, Geoff, not while I'm eating." 

Michael praises him up and down with compliments--about the steak, about the vegetables, about every element of the meal. It's typical old Michael, eager to please, pretending (or not pretending at all, who even knew at this point) to suck up. It feels so good to have this version of Michael back--easy to talk to, stroking his ego, exhilarating to laugh with--that Geoff is halfway tempted to abandon the reason why he asked Michael to come over in the first place.

It's very tempting. To pretend. To keep kayfabe intact. To try to forget that the night ever happened. Maybe they really could just move forward.

But then the hard truth Geoff had already come to a thousand times on his own: it would be easy, but it wouldn't be right. 

\---

Michael realizes that Geoff isn't fucking listening to him at this point. 

After the initial toast, neither of them has really touched their wine, but Michael has enthusiastically been devouring the dinner Geoff prepared. He knew Geoff was a decent cook but this meal is really over the top--tender steak cooked just right, flavorful to the point where it's goddamn ridiculous, and Michael didn't even hate the vegetables on the side. 

Geoff has been laughing at his jokes all night, and the more Geoff laughs, the more deep smiles Michael earns with his jokes, the more Michael feels like his life is being put back into order. With each handsome smile Geoff gives him, each low rolling chuckle, another disturbed puzzle piece is put back into place. Michael could do this all night, honestly, feeding off the positive energy and the conversation they're sharing. 

But eventually the smiles slow down, the laughter gets a little weaker. Michael watches as Geoff disengages from the conversation, Geoff crossing his arms in front of him, elbows on the table, a fist curled into his chin. Michael isn't too worried until he sees Geoff start rubbing his heavily tattooed upper arm with his right hand. Up and down, absentmindedly. Up and down. Fingers starfishing out, in, out. Michael's noticed Geoff doing this before, especially when he's distracted or worried about something. 

Michael continues to talk, watching Geoff rub and rub his arm, harder and more insistently, until honestly he can't take it anymore.

"Dude ok," Michael says, and Geoff looks up to meet his eyes. "Are we going to have some sort of serious talk now? If you put it off any longer I'm afraid you're going to rub your fucking tattoos off." 

\---

"Yeah," Geoff says. "You're right, sorry." Geoff chuckles lightly, in spite of himself.

"What's funny?" Michael asks.

"Just never thought I'd see Michael Jones taking charge of a serious conversation," Geoff says. 

It looks like something snaps inside of Michael and his posture involuntarily straightens a few degrees, but Geoff has no idea what nerve he's just struck. Michael's mouth becomes a thin line and he sits there, spine straight, obviously impatient to hear whatever Geoff has to say.

"Look," Geoff says, not meeting Michael's eyes now. "I owe you an apology. Bringing you home that night was… a mistake." 

Michael might as well be a statue. He doesn't react.

"I realize you were drunk, and so was I--"

"OK let me stop you there," Michael says. Geoff meets his eyes now. Michael looks serious and sad as he continues. "I wasn't drunk. Not in the bathroom, not on the walk home, and definitely not by the time we got back here. So honestly? There's no excuse for that performance."

"Performance?" Geoff asks. _Was the whole night just a joke somehow? An act?_

"You know," Michael says, breaking eye contact, trailing off, and suddenly intently examining his napkin. "The whole, uh, shitty blow job. Thing."

"OK yeah so," Geoff says, shaking his head. "We'll talk about the drunk thing in a second, but. You keep alluding to this mythical shitty blow job. You do realize that's not the issue at hand here, right?" 

Michael meets his eyes again. 

"Then…" Something is at work behind Michael's eyes. "I guess… Then. What was the problem? Just, like, me throwing myself at you in a bathroom bar?"

"No, Michael," Geoff says, firmly. _What a fucking mess,_ he thinks. "That is not the fucking problem. The problem was the fact that I wanted it and I let you do it and we came home together. The problem is that my brain was fifteen steps behind my body and it didn't occur to me how fucked up the whole thing was until I was ten seconds away from coming in your damn mouth. It was my fault--my mistake--acting like some horny kid. _That_ is the fucking problem." 

Michael looks halfway between laughing and crying. And after a second, he does laugh.

"Goddamn it Michael, what's funny?" 

"Can we go back to the part of that explanation, for a second, to the part where you said you wanted it?"

"Christ, turn the dagger dude," Geoff says, his voice going up an octave, exasperated. "That's not the part that needs exploring right now."

Michael is smiling wide now and he throws up his hands.

"Hey man, you're the one who needed serious talk tonight," Michael says. "I already offered you the option where we never speak of this shit again and move on with our lives."

Well, Geoff thinks. Michael does have him there.

"Yeah, ok, whatever dude," Geoff says in defeat. "Like, obviously I wanted it. Do we need to dwell on that?"

"Yes," Michael says. "I need to dwell for a second." Michael is visibly gloating next to him at the table.

"You are just literally the worst," Geoff says, rubbing his arm again.

"Oh excuse me," Michael says, the volume of his voice climbing. "I just spent the last nine days thinking that I had forced myself on you and then ruined my one shot with a shitty blow job. Excuse me for finding at least a marginal sense of relief in the fact that you _wanted_ it."

"Rub my nose in it for christsakes," Geoff says. The more riled he gets, the more Michael seems to gloat. "I honestly could not feel worse that I took advantage of you, Michael. Not that you're not a… lovely individual." 

Michael raises an eyebrow at this.

"Last time I checked, I'm way past the age of consent, I was sober as hell, I cornered _you_ in a bathroom, and I was the one sucking _your_ dick," Michael says. "So forgive me if I fail to see the part where you were somehow taking advantage of me?" 

"I'm your boss--" Geoff starts.

"OK, irrelevant. Don't give a shit," Michael interrupts him. He looks all business, crossing his arms and looking Geoff straight in the eyes.

"I'm _twelve_ years older than you--"

"Right, don't give a shit, next?"

"I spent the last year completely egging you on about everything--"

"Right, daddy jokes. Pretty hot, 10/10, would continue to joke with you again."

"Are you trying to fucking talk me into this right now?" Geoff asks in disbelief.

"I'm sure as fuck not trying to talk you _out_ of it." 

\---

Well, this was _not_ where Michael had foreseen the night going. 

"I don't know," Geoff finally says, and Michael can tell he's walking a fine line with his teasing because Geoff is clearly getting frustrated. "I don't know what you want me to say, Michael." 

Michael thinks earnestly about it for a moment. What exactly did he want out of this conversation?

"Say… " Michael finally ventures, meeting Geoff's eyes. "Say you'll give me a shot."

"No," Geoff says firmly, shaking his head. "It's not the right thing to do."

"Geoff, unless there's some company policy against dudes banging each other that you forgot to go over during my employee orientation," Michael says, "You've failed to produce a single reason why it's not the right thing to do." 

Geoff won't meet his eyes now. The tension is too thick. Michael can't help but joke.

"And dude if there _is_ a policy, you should really let Ryan and Ray know about it before they bang anymore," Michael says. Geoff snorts and rolls his eyes. "I'm serious Geoff, I don't want them fired."

"Shut the fuck up," Geoff says, sighing. 

"Whatever, that's good comedy," Michael says, which finally gets a passable smile out of Geoff. 

"Geoff, I'm serious, what can I say to convince you?" Michael begs.

Geoff is examining a placemat and rubbing his arm again--it's enough to drive Michael up a wall. Finally Michael grabs Geoff's wrist, taking his hand and placing it on the dinner table, leaving his own hand firmly on top of Geoff's. 

"I like you a _lot_ Geoff. The only reason I approached you is that I like you so much that it's interfering with my ability to be friends with you," Michael says slowly, no hint of a joke in his voice. "I had one of those make or break moments where I knew I needed to take a shot or I'd spend the rest of my life regretting it. _Not trying_ would've been the real fucking mistake." 

"Michael--" Geoff starts to interrupt.

"And you're telling me that I didn't totally blow it--that the actual reason behind all of this… whatever this is. This angst. Is that you have some sort of hang up about liking me." 

"Yeah," Geoff says. "I guess."

"So don't be an asshole," Michael says, not removing his hand. "Give it a shot with me." 

"Fuckin hell, Michael," Geoff says with a sigh. A pause. "You're the most persistent bastard I've ever met." A pause. He can tell Geoff is thinking it over, weighing it out in his mind.

Finally: "Did you really think I asked you to come here tonight to criticize your oral skills?"

 _Oh god,_ Michael's heart soars. _That's not a fucking no!_

"Yeah dude, I thought you were going to bring out the gay sex FAQ," Michael says. "I was hoping there would be pointers and, I dunno, maybe diagrams. Blow jobs are way harder than I expected."

There's a long pause. Neither of them are clear on where to go from here. Should Michael, what, pick up the plates and be on his way? And then, what, ask Geoff out on a date? No, he thinks, fuck that. He takes his hand from where it's resting on top of Geoff's and puts it on Geoff's knee.

"Geoff, I have something serious to ask you about and it's really been bothering me," Michael says.

"Shoot," Geoff says.

"How in the name of God and all that is holy do you change that beautiful fucking dick jewelry?"

Geoff yowls a laugh, then, his whole body shaking, his head thrown back.

"Jeeesus Christ, Michael," he says through laughter. "You're the best moron I ever met."

"I'm not fucking joking dude," Michael says, pretending to be mad. "The logistics of this dick ring are keeping me up at night." 

"Um, really _really_ carefully," Geoff says, smiling. "With special pliers. And the help of a deeply trustworthy friend." 

Michael is beaming and they sit there for a minute. Michael scoots his chair across the carpet a few inches to lessen the gap between them.

"Geoff, are you going to freak out if I kiss you again?" Michael asks, the distance between them still shrinking. 

"I don't know," Geoff says almost dreamily, meeting his eyes. "I might." 

Michael is willing to chance it, gently bringing his face to meet Geoff's. It's a different kiss than any that they've shared so far. Slow, not needy, but gradually intensifying as they take their time exploring each other. Michael's heart begins to thud hard in his chest, blood awakening--and even just after one kiss--already pulsing insistently towards his groin.

Geoff's hands are on his shoulders after a moment, breaking the kiss. 

"This is something that you want, Michael?" he asks. 

"Yes, Geoff," Michael replies gently.

"You know you can change your mind any time you want," Geoff says, "and things can go back to normal."

"Geoff, seriously, how many different ways can I say it? I, Michael Jones of sound body and mind, want a shot with you, ok. If you'll have me?" 

Geoff makes a guttural sound and sighs hard, running his hands up and down Michael's arms now. 

"Fuck, Michael," he says. "I'll absolutely have you." And now he's pulling Michael, gathering him up and moving the smaller man into his lap. Michael swings an arm around Geoff's shoulders for purchase as Geoff expertly sits him down across his thighs. Geoff lets his head fall against Michael's chest for a minute, just breathing. 

"I'm really glad I didn't fuck up your whole world," Geoff says. "I thought you might, I don't know, go look for another job or something. Christ. The things I thought."

"I thought you might fire me for being shitty at oral," Michael says. Geoff looks up with an eyebrow raised. "Fine, not really."

"You're _not_ shitty at oral," Geoff says, stroking Michael through his shirt across the midsection. 

"Seriously?" 

"I mean, you may lack the finesse of a blow job king like myself," Geoff says, "But what you lack in skill you certainly make up for in enthusiasm." 

"I've always been curious about what you might teach me, Geoff," Michael says, beginning to stroke Geoff's back. Geoff hums at this. Michael's erection is pinned against his leg--the kiss, the proximity to Geoff, and the light dirty talk enough to keep it going strong. 

"Would you like me to show you," Geoff offers, eyes cast down. 

"Yes," Michael says, breathless. Geoff's hand moves lower to stroke Michael through his pants.

"Would you like me to take care of you, Michael," Geoff says, his voice dropping.

"Yeah," Michael says, almost panting now. 

"Just yeah?" Geoff goads him on. 

"Yeah, yes. Yes Geoff," Michael says, searching for whatever Geoff must want to hear as Geoff palms his dick through layers of clothing. "Geoff, please take care of me." 

"You were so good to me the other night, Michael," Geoff continues. "Are you going to be good for me again?"

Behind the scenes, Michael's brain is moving at a thousand miles an hour. Geoff seems to really get off on this dirty talk thing--not that Michael isn't liking it. Geoff's breathing is deep and rhythmic, his eyes heavy-lidded. 

"I'll be good, Geoff," Michael says. "I want to be a good boy for you." 

At this Geoff sighs deeply and Michael knows that he's taken the dirty talk on the right track.

"Oh Michael," Geoff says, low, beginning to kiss Michael's neck gently. "Let's get you out of these clothes." 

\---

It's so different this time, Geoff thinks, leading Michael to his bedroom. Their last encounter has taken on the quality of a half-remembered fever dream to Geoff, pictures and sensations with no real narrative behind it. Impatient hands, greedy mouths. 

This time his mind isn't fifteen steps behind his body. It's all working together and although he feels a bit intoxicated by how _perfect_ Michael is at all this, he's glad to be sober.

Michael lets Geoff take the lead this time in the dim bedroom, and Geoff is happy to take his time, standing at the foot of his bed, sharing a deep kiss with Michael. His hands snake under the thin fabric of Michael's shirt, caressing his back, the uniform bumps of his spine, moving down to brush the swell of his ass. 

Geoff kisses down Michael's neck with growing intensity.

"Take off your shirt," he orders, finally, stepping back. Michael obediently takes off the garment and neatly lays it on the foot of the bed. Geoff closes the distance between them again, kissing Michael again, hands roaming Michael's torso slowly and dipping every so often to graze his erection. 

"You're so beautiful, Michael," Geoff says to him sweetly between kisses. He reaches down, with both hands now, unbuckling Michael's belt. 

"It was hard for me not to think about you all the time," Geoff continues. Michael's fly is unbuttoned now, the movements becoming more rough as Geoff continues. "Everything I wanted to do with that eager mouth," Geoff says. Michael groans as Geoff pulls his pants and underwear down in one not-so-gentle movement. Michael kicks off his flip flops and steps out of the pants. 

\---

"Get on the bed," Geoff says curtly, the authority in his voice making Michael's dick throb. He shuffles backwards onto the bed, not taking his eyes off of Geoff, waiting for his next order. 

Geoff stands at the foot of the bed and strips efficiently, brusquely disposing of his shirt, unbuckling his belt, not hurried but with no bit of gentleness. He stands naked for a moment, regarding Michael, and Michael can't help but to again admire Geoff's thick cock, standing at attention, gently curving upward and punctuated by the graceful black ring. 

As Geoff climbs onto the bed, Michael is already snaking his hand absentmindedly down to his own erection, which he traces with his fingers. Geoff reaches him, bats his hand away. 

"Don't be greedy Michael," Geoff says, chiding him. "Let me take care of you." 

"I'm sorry," Michael says, panting now as Geoff's hand replaces his own on his erection, teasing and light. 

"If you want me to take care of you, you have to be good," Geoff says, kissing Michael's chest, stroking his dick. And god, it does feel good to be taken care of, Michael thinks. 

"You want me to take care of you, don't you?" Geoff whispers, urging Michael to be more vocal.

"Yeah," Michael pants. "Yes... daddy," he ventures, knowing that if Geoff hates it, he's probably ruined the night again. 

But clearly Geoff does not, as he moans and gives Michael an unexpected visceral push, landing Michael flat on his back in the middle of the bed. 

"You know all the right things to say to me, baby," Geoff says. "You really know how to be such a good boy."

Geoff grabs Michael's hips firmly and pins them to the bed, planting dry kisses from Michael's sternum to his belly button. Michael aches so badly for more contact that he almost feels like he's drifting in and out of consciousness, and when he comes back to himself he realizes that he's making a low whine as Geoff continues his silent work. When Geoff reaches Michael's lower body, the kisses become slow and gentle licks, teasing his hips, his inner thighs, and finally his aching erection. 

Michael gives over to the moment, throwing his head back and closing his eyes in ecstasy. Geoff lavishes every part of him with attention, coming up only occasionally for air and to reassure Michael that he's "such a good, beautiful boy," which only makes Michael's blood pound harder. 

Geoff's teasing continues in earnest, never establishing a rhythm with Michael's dick but alternating long, wet sucks up and down his cock with chaste kisses at its base, slow and deliberate strokes of his fingers on the head, smearing beads of precum. Any time Michael bucks or moves, a firm hand returns to his hips, pressing them into the bed. Geoff is surprisingly strong, each push into the bed feeling like something Michael couldn't even hope to fight against. 

And then both of Geoff's hands are at his hips, pulling him further down the bed and tilting his ass up at an unexpected angle. Geoff holds him there solidly and Michael feels a moment of unexplained panic, his knees in the air, ass exposed. 

"Hold your knees," Geoff instructs him. Michael does as he's told, reaching up to hook his hands into the hollows of his own knees, feeling unexpectedly exposed.

Geoff kisses down the back of his leg, stroking his ass, before licking his way to Michael's asshole. Michael bucks, unable to control the reaction, dropping his grip on his knees.

"Geoff, I don't--"

"Shh, I get it," Geoff says. "Give me a chance, baby." He tilts Michael's ass up again and Michael obediently takes his knees and pulls them towards his chest. 

Geoff goes slower this time, stroking all of the planes and contours of Michael's ass, kissing them all gently in concentric circles before firmly stroking the dusky skin around his hole. It's a sensation that Michael is entirely unused to and to his utter amazement, it tickles like hell as Geoff begins to slowly lick his asshole.

"Stop squirming," Geoff finally says. Michael takes a deep breath and after a moment his skin becomes more used to the even, wet strokes and the sensation stops tickling. It's unlike anything Michael's ever felt before, alternately teasing and probing, and warm arousal continues to flow through him. Michael moans as he lets go of any hang ups, enjoying the sensation of Geoff eating him out. 

Finally Michael feels Geoff sit back and Michael slowly lowers his knees, slightly stiff from sitting in the same position for too long. 

"Thanks baby," Geoff says, kissing his way back up Michael's thighs. Geoff lets out a deep sigh. "You don't know how long I've wanted to do that." 

Geoff spits into his hand now, once again slicking Michael's cock with warm saliva and pumping it slowly. Michael breathes hard as Geoff finally falls into a rhythm. 

"I want you to come now, baby," Geoff says, gazing at Michael from heavily-lidded eyes. "Will you come for me?" 

"Yeah Geoff," Michael says, barely coherent, falling apart under Geoff's stroking hand. "God I want to come. Please let me come for you, daddy." 

At that, Michael watches the self-professed king of blow jobs lean over his cock before neatly swallowing the entire length. At the bottom of the stroke, with his mouth and throat tightly enveloping Michael, Geoff even manages to pause and lap at the soft skin under his cock before coming back up for air. It's probably the hottest thing Michael has ever watched but at the same time he can't help but be _damned impressed_. He wonders if the man was just born without a gag reflex or what.

"Holy shit," Michael says, lapsing out of dirty talk. "Holy hell Geoff." 

Geoff hums around Michael's cock, obviously amused but not stopping. He builds a steady rhythm, stroking up and down Michael with his warm, velvet-feeling mouth and throat and pleasure builds like pop rocks, crackling in from every cell in his body until he feels like no part of him exists aside from his dick.

"Geoff--I'm gonna--"

And at that, Geoff sinks Michael to the hilt again, swallowing around his cock and Michael loses his last tenuous grip on sanity, babbling incoherent as he comes hard into Geoff's throat. He's a mess, words tumbling out of him and he realizes his hands are laced into Geoff's hair as he curses his way through the orgasm, until he's trembling like a leaf, melting into the mattress, no bone left in his entire damn body. 

Geoff withdraws gently, taking a deep breath and stroking Michael's arms, his hair, taking care to avoid any area that would be too sensitive. 

"That was fucking perfect," he says to Geoff, once he's finally back to himself. "I want to be able to do that for you."

Geoff smiles.

"Not tonight, baby," Geoff says gently, shifting his position so that he's up on his knees next to Michael. "There's more than enough time to learn." 

The statement, innocent enough, spirals out into wild extrapolations in Michael's post-orgasmic mind. _There's more than enough time,_ he thinks. _There will be more times,_ Michael thinks. He's giddy at the thought.

Geoff spits in his hand again and begins to slowly stroke his own length. Michael starts to get on his knees, moving to Geoff. "That's ok," Geoff says firmly. "I just want you to watch for now. Is that ok?"

Michael nods, sitting back in his spot on the bed. It's more than fucking OK, he thinks to himself. It's probably the best suggestion he's ever heard. 

Geoff moves until he's standing, swaying but shins propped against the edge of the bed. He waves for Michael to follow him to the edge of the bed and Michael shuffles, fumbling to join him. Geoff handles himself, stroking his cock rhythmically with one hand. And suddenly he's burying his other hand in Michael's curls, stroking his hair back from his face. 

"God Michael, you're such a good boy," he says, his eyes almost closed. "I knew you would be _so good_ with me."

Michael knows he's been instructed to look and not touch, but he can't help reaching a hand up to stroke Geoff's thigh. 

"Please Geoff… you took such good care of me… let me take care of you," Michael says, knowing there's a whine edging into his voice.

"Yeah baby?" Geoff says, guttural, the hand still curled in Michael's hair. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes daddy, please," Michael says, consciously begging now, knowing Geoff is getting off on it as his strokes become faster and his body stutters. "Please let me suck you off. _Please_."

"Ok baby," Geoff says, fingers releasing Michael's hair. "Come on." 

Michael is too ambitious, carried away in the moment, to remember what a complicated affair it had been last time--Geoff had made it look so easy--and he immediately gags on Geoff's cock, making a weak noise, his body spasming involuntarily.

"Easy Michael, baby, easy," Geoff says, the words juttering out of him. Michael keeps going, though, working through the gag, breathing hard through his nose. Geoff's hand snakes to the back of his head again, this time guiding him, helping him find a quick and shallow rhythm, and Geoff is no longer making noises, just panting raggedly in the dimness above Michael. 

Once they fall into the comfortable cadence, it's only a dozen strokes before Geoff begins to spasm into orgasm. In an afterthought he warns Michael ("I'm gonna--!") who hollows his cheeks, strokes Geoff's hip with his free hand, not even sure if it's the right thing to do or not. He lets Geoff empty himself into his throat, listening as the man's breath hitches, feeling his muscles give a few exhausted twitches. Geoff's hand disappears from the back of his curls and Michael swallows before realizing that he has no idea how long he's been holding his breath. 

Geoff goes slack above him, literally weak in the knees, and he collapses onto the head of the bed, flipping after a moment to lay face up--his legs dangling off the edge--breathing hard. Michael moves to lay perpendicular, curling up under one of Geoff's arms. 

"D'you think we fucked up?" Michael asks after a moment, not moving from his spot on Geoff's chest. He's incapable, he realizes, of normal pillow talk.

"We absolutely fucked up," Geoff says, smiling into the dimness, curling an arm around Michael. "It's like… basically the most fucked up thing I could imagine." He laughs, but it's not spiteful. 

"So I'm still a mistake then," Michael says, smiling now too.

"Yes. You're the best mistake I think I've ever made."

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story more than a YEAR ago and even made a special blog for it: horrificsmut.tumblr.com. I'd planned on it being three chapters and mostly porn. Unfortunately, I wrote up to the point where they actually start touching each other and chickened the hell out. So the story sat unfinished for a year while I tried to figure out how to write a sex scene.
> 
> So it goes without saying that I'm really happy to be finishing this up!
> 
> Thank you SO DAMN MUCH for reading! Feedback, comments, any acknowledgement of my existence is super appreciated.


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